Chronicles of Ithilien
by Berzerkerprime
Summary: After the War of the Ring, something still moves in the East. Now, Ithilien is Gondor's first line of defense and Faramir, the Steward of Gondor, is charged with keeping her borders. Can this mystery be solved or will Ithilien fall? Chapter four posted.
1. Final Shadow of Sauron

The Chronicles of Ithilien

By Berzerker_prime

Chapter One: The Final Shadow of Sauron

The War of the Ring had not been kind to Minas Tirith. That much was vastly evident from the numerous scars of battle that the White City had suffered during the Battle of the Pelennor. Holes yawned in the lower portions of the city where the catapults of Mordor had found their marks. Great gashes scraped the earth where the armaments of the city had responded. Hills had been raised to honor the victorious dead and dispose of the foul remains of defeated enemies.

And yet, the healing process was already well on its way. Masons and builders worked feverishly to close the unwanted openings in the city's buildings. Farmers had tilled the earth of the Pelennor and were now harvesting a good fall crop, save from the area around the hill of dead fell beings where the ground was fouled. Dwarven iron workers and woodworkers had even furnished a new gate to replace the one smashed by the Orc battering ram, Grond. The artisans had guilt the new gates with figures and portents of the dawn of the Fourth Age; the downfall of Barad-Dur, the crumbling of Mount Doom, the crowning of King Elessar. And at their center, resplendent in silver, were the symbols of the King; the white tree in renewed splendor surrounded by seven stars and seven stones, and at its top the winged crown of Numenor. Thereafter, they were called the Gates of Elessar.

Standing upon the bastion at the tip of the keel of mountain facing eastward was a small shape in white. It was that of a young boy, clad in the uniform of an esquire of the White Company, his tabard all of white and emblazoned with the white tree of Gondor. The boy faced ever northward from the bastion, indeed at times he even leaned out from the walls as if to see further around Mindolluin, the tip of Ered Nimrais, so much so that the Citadel Guard present believed that he might fall from the great height into the first tier of the city, far below.

It was mid-day on the third day of the boy's careful watch that any of the black-clad Citadel Guard thought to ask him his business.

"Young Bergil," the bastion captain finally inquired, "what is it that you wait for with such baited breath?"

"I await the coming of the White Lady of Rohan, sir," the boy answered, "Lord Faramir has charged me with announcing to him her coming from the north."

There was an amused chuckle from the company of the bastion's Guard. Some even muttered something about a fool's errand to keep the boy out of the Steward's considerable business. Bergil made a rather sour face in response to all of this, but turned back to his duty.

"My lord has given me an errand and I intend to carry it out," he replied, "you would do no less than that for King Elessar, if he so ordered and I will do no less for Lord Faramir."

This garnered further laugher from the Citadel Guards, but it was quickly stifled by the captain. "Rest your jibes, my friends," he said, "the boy speaks the truth with clear words. You should not belittle him for it." He walked next to Bergil and knelt, facing the boy eye to eye. "You do your duty well, young Master Bergil. You will bring the White Company much honor if you perform all your tasks with equal zeal."

"Yes, sir," the boy answered.

"Now, do your duty," the captain finished, pointing a hand to the north.

Bergil spun around and lifted himself up by the edge of the wall. He leaned out and looked northward. There, just making its way around the western tip of the mountains, was a convoy led by three of the honored horses of Rohan, each with a rider of the company of King Eomer bearing a banner. On the left was the banner of the house of Eorl, on the right was the new banner of the third line of kings, and in the center was a new banner never seen in Gondor until that day, that of the Renewed Allegiance between Rohan and Gondor. It had been wrought by the Lady Eowyn and her kin as a gift from the house of King Eomer to that of King Elessar.

"The White Lady of Rohan approaches!" Bergil exclaimed, hopping down from his post by the wall and darting off down the length of the stone keel toward the tunnel that led from the Citadel to the sixth tier just below it. Sprinting through the streets of the sixth tier, he repeated his exclamation, turning a considerable number of heads as he went.

Finally, Bergil came to a large domed house, that of his father, Beregond. Two of the White Company were stationed outside its main doors, signifying with ceremonial presence that the Steward was within. As they had for many a day since the crowning of Elessar, Faramir was consulting with his captain of the guard about the building of the newly named Minas Estel in Ithilien.

Bergil passed the two guards without preamble and entered the house. "My Lord Faramir!" he shouted, passing from the antechamber into the great circular hall in the middle of the first floor beyond. There, Faramir and Beregond were standing at a table, pouring over a set of maps and schematics.

Beregond, too, was clad in the raiment of the White Company, his rank as Captain clearly evident. He was clad in leather bleached white by some craft that Bergil cared not to understand and emblazoned with the White Tree emblem in silver. But, rather than the Star of Fëanor at the top, there was a star fashioned in the shape of a leaf. A cloak of grey hung on his shoulders and fell no lower than his knees, eight pointed, rayed stars embroidered on either side of the silver closure at the neck. The captain looked across the room at his son with a slight scowl on his face.

"Bergil!" he said sternly. "Announce yourself to your Lord before you enter."

"Apologies, father... my lord," Bergil replied with a bow.

"Well, since you are here, what has you so excited, young Master Bergil?" Faramir inquired. The Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien stood in contrast to his captain in nearly every way possible. He was younger by at least twenty years and wore no raiment of the guard. Rather, he was clad in blues of a noble hue, his cloak trimmed with silver and closed by a broach of the star of Fëanor. Upon his brow, a circlet wrought in the shape of vines sat, crowned with a white jewel. Although Faramir was a half head shorter than Beregond, he managed still to hold himself as though he was taller. His face was that of a kind, wise, and well-loved leader of men.

"The Lady Eowyn, my lord," Bergil answered his question, "she approaches from the north. Her party will be nearly to Rammas Echor by now."

A smile came to Faramir's face, somehow lifting several years from his features. He glanced back at Beregond who was already in the process of rolling up the maps they had been studying.

"I believe, my lord, that this will keep," said the captain.

"That is well," Faramir replied, "for I have not seen my lady in four months and my meeting her will not keep."

"Take my horse and ride to her, then," said Beregond.

Faramir was about to do just that when he paused and turned to the door that Bergil had entered with a look of uncertainty. "And what of my two shadows?"

"As my father once said to me, my lord, 'love abides no ceremony,'" Beregond answered, clapping a hand on to the Steward's shoulder, "go to her and leave your men to your captain for now." He nodded his head toward another door on the opposite side of the circular room, half conspiratorially. "The stable is closer to the back door, anyway."

His smile returned to his face, Faramir put a hand on Beregond's shoulder in thanks, giving a nod. Then, he turned and hurried from the room.

"It is good to see our lord smile again, is it not?" Beregond asked of his son after he had heard the back door open and close again.

"Yes, father, but..."

"But?"

"I have seen him at nights. He walks to and fro in the Citadel, eyes downcast and shoulders bowed as if a great weight was upon them. In those times, he seems sad and lost, father."

Beregond gave a heavy sigh and did not reply for a long moment. "You are more observant than I should take you for, my son," he finally said.

"Have I done something wrong?"

"Nay, but heed me. You must never speak of this to anyone other than me. The Lord Faramir's thoughts in those times are clearly meant for his mind only. Do you understand?"

"I think I do, father."

"Good then." The captain straightened himself taller and squared his shoulders. "Come along, Bergil," Beregond said to his son, "the King must be informed of Lady Eowyn's coming. And do mind yourself, this time."

"Yes, father."

* * *

Beregond's horse was plenty fast for a horse of Gondor. But Faramir found himself suddenly wishing for the fleet-footed horse he had ridden by Eomer-king's bidding in Rohan when he had accompanied the funeral cortege of Theoden-king. He had had the chance to ride hither and yon around Edoras in those few days, sometimes with Eowyn, sometimes alone, and he had come to find that no horse bred in the white city could compare to one of the Mearas. At the moment, he would have given anything for one so fleet of foot and so agile as them to get him through the busy and crowded streets of the city all the faster.

Northward and southward he turned the reins as he tore back and forth down the levels of Minas Tirith. Finally, he came to the great west-facing gate of the city, shouting a command that it be opened. As soon as a horse's breadth of the Pelennor showed through the great doors, he urged his mount through and shot from the city with fervor.

It was a short ride northward, only a few minutes, that finally brought him to the Rohirrim party, Eowyn within their midst, a white beacon upon a chestnut horse in the middle of a sea of browns and greens and golds. Upon her shoulders was the blue cloak Faramir had given her months ago during their mutual stay in the Houses of Healing. It gave him great joy to see her wearing it for it had belonged to his mother long ago and now it seemed to have come alive again.

The party came to a halt as Faramir approached. He dismounted Beregond's horse hardly before it came to a stop and went into their midst, ignoring several levels of protocol, he was certain. But he did not care. Eowyn came down off her horse as well and the two of them met in an embrace.

"My lady, it has been far too long to await your return," Faramir said to her, "your coming brings me great joy."

"It brings it to me as well," she replied, "for the funeral of my uncle brought dark days to Rohan and saddened me greatly when I am certain he would not have had it be so."

"Then, by his will and your leave, we will make such a joy as to be remembered. Let us now to the King and Queen, for I believe they will wish to greet you as well."

"You do not know for certain?"

"Such was my eagerness to see you again."

"I perceive a measure of a hopeless boy in you, Steward of Gondor."

* * *

Faramir and Eowyn had had barely an hour's time together before they were separated again. Much as he desired to remain in her company, Faramir's duties as Steward had to come first. There was still a great deal to be done, issues to be resolved, to ensure that the King's authority would be recognized by all the lords of the realm. Indeed, since he had awoken and learned of his father's death, Faramir felt that he had become equal parts ambassador, bureaucrat, speech writer, and messenger.

The latest was from the governor of the city of Calembel, a Lord Ambarhil by name, who was claiming land rights that dated back to the time of King Ondoher who fell in battle before he could sign the proclamation. Ambarhil was using this claim as a justification for the outward movement of the boarders of Calembel, but expressed concern over his people's reluctance to settle land that was perhaps not theirs by right. Although the petition was worded courteously, there was the hint that were this not granted him, there would be a certain number of political repercussions.

King Elessar Telcontar seemed as bored with the issue as Faramir was, his eyes rolling skyward as it was the seventh such petition that day. The King's regal bearing slipped, finally, and he rose from his seat, throwing up his hands in no small amount of irritation. He began pacing the room with a hand to his forehead and Faramir stopped reading the parchment.

"This has become excessive," the King finally said, "how many more are there?"

It was not information Faramir wanted to know for himself for there was still considerable heft left to the bag that had been delivered to him. He tossed the parchment down on the table and leaned back in his chair tiredly.

"A great many, my king," Faramir replied, "all of them calling upon orders issuing from the crown since the time of Anarion. It would seem that some of these have been kept in drawers and archives since the dawn of the Third Age, waiting for someone to take up the crown and scepter again."

"Is there no way that we may deal with all of them in one fell swoop? If we were to address them one by one, I will age and die and have no time to leave an heir, bringing us full circle to the issue of succession. We will see these resolved and then have a second Castamir of Umbar!"

Faramir sighed. "There is no provision for this that I know of," he said, "no one ever believed there would be no king in Gondor for a thousand years."

Elessar returned to his seat across from Faramir and landed in it heavily. He put one elbow on the table and rested his chin there, gazing at the disarrayed pile of parchments laid out there, his winged crown tipping slightly in a most un-king-like manner. "Suppose we burned them all and claimed ignorance. What do you think would happen?"

Faramir shrugged, sniffing a short laugh into the air and letting a lop-sided smile come to him. "Underestimate not the annoyance of lords, for they are bureaucratic and quick to stubbornness. They will send them again."

Elessar laughed and leaned back, reaching for his nearby cup of water and taking a drink from it. "Likely, you are right," he said, then sighed. "Faramir, I must apologize to you. I know that with Eowyn finally returned, this is the last place you wish to be."

"I wouldn't say it is the last place, my king, but I will admit it is very near the bottom."

"As it is for me," the king admitted, "this is not at all what I was raised to do. Since my lineage was revealed to me by the Lord Elrond, ever I sought only to lead the Dunedain Rangers of the north. It was a much more lowly role."

"If I may, your highness, I have recently learned, as I believe we all have, that even those born to the smallest of stature can achieve things that men of great strength and power may not. It was two _Pheriannath_, an orphan and a gardener no less, who brought about the fall of Sauron."

"Aye, we all owe much to Frodo and Samwise. You are correct to point out that it is not just for their quest to the Mountain of Doom. None the less, it is all in the way of great change. We live in a wholly different world than we did just half a year ago. There have been times since when I believe the Elves correct in voyaging to a land that remains unchanged. But you have not told me your thoughts on all of this, Faramir. What does the Steward of Gondor think of these sweeping changes?"

The question caught Faramir somewhat off guard. It had been asked in good spirit, a simple conversation. But he was suddenly faced with the realization that any answer he could give, if it were to be truthful, would reflect an unnecessarily dark tone. He was also faced with the fact that he was not entirely certain just how it was he felt of all this.

"I suppose I had not thought on it, my lord," he answered after a not unnoticed hesitation. He added a half-hearted laugh, trying to make it sound convincing. "My waking hours have been so consumed by maps and archives."

Elessar gave him a queer look and Faramir immediately perceived that the king saw right through the attempted misdirection. The arched eyebrow was particularly pressing of the inquiry. Faramir left his seat, attempting to get away from the king's all-penetrating gaze. He put a hand to his chin in thought and silently paced toward the one large window in the room, overlooking the white tree in the citadel yard. Frantically, his mind searched for the right words.

"Something troubles you?" Elessar asked from somewhere behind him, no small amount of concern evident in his voice. There was a pause, then footsteps before Faramir felt a hand on his shoulder. "Faramir, look at me for a moment."

The steward did as instructed, turning to face his lord. However, he found instead the crownless face of a Ranger from the north, Aragorn, son of Arathorn. He glanced back toward the table and found that the winged crown had been left there.

"Look upon me not as the King for but a moment and speak your mind," said Aragorn, "friend to friend rather than steward to lord."

Faramir shifted uncomfortably and looked away again, his gaze turning to the landscape far beyond the window. "These are indeed great days," he said after a considerable pause, "and I am glad to be a part of them. But a darkness dwells upon my mind still and ever my worries bend eastward without cause. There is naught but a broken land there, now. Yet something haunts my thoughts, as if some parasite crawls from black and twisted cracks." He shook his head and turned back to Aragorn. "Think not on it. I have looked upon that land all my life and paranoia, it seems, has taken its toll."

"Do not dismiss it, entirely," Aragorn answered, "you see far, my friend, just as your father did."

"I do not wish to see so far in such a manner!"

Aragorn gave him another strange look and Faramir ground his jaws together as one who was trying to keep from saying more than he should. There was a flood of words behind his teeth which he swallowed and sought to hide.

"That is the crux of it, then," Aragorn said in all but a whisper.

Almost as if in horror, Faramir turned from Aragorn and strode with purpose back toward the center of the room. There, he stood in silence for a moment, collecting himself. When he turned back to Aragorn, it was clear that he was once again resolved to look upon his king.

"They are inner demons, my lord," he said, "I will vanquish them. My duty will not be imperiled."

"That is not my concern."

"Nay, my lord, it is but mine. And already I have allowed it to come too far into these halls." He began to rearrange the parchments on the table, swiftly resorting them into a system that Aragorn could not entirely discern.

"As you wish it then," said Aragorn with a sigh as he returned to the table and took up his crown once again. He grasped the nearest document and skimmed it for a moment. "Then, let us see what Lord Golasgil of Anfalas would have of Isildur's heir."

Faramir suddenly looked up at Elessar and a renewed spark of purpose was in his gaze. "_Isildur_'s heir," he said, as if realizing the king's lineage for the first time. Elessar was confused for a moment and stood silently looking at his Steward. Faramir, for his part, took up a parchment and read it over quickly again. "That may be the solution," said the Steward.

"You speak not plainly, Lord Steward," said Elessar.

"Nay, but I cannot as yet," Faramir answered, "wishful thinking may be clouding rational judgment, my lord. Might I have leave to go and explore this possible solution to our problem?"

"By all means," Elessar said with a slight sigh of relief, "go with all haste you desire and more."

"My king," Faramir acknowledged with a quick bow before beginning his rush from the chamber, "if you have need of me, I shall be in the City Archives."

And with that, the Steward departed company of the King. Elessar looked about in his suddenly empty and quiet chamber, his eyes finally resting of the stack of parchments. With a long, drawn-out sigh, he sat in his chair once again and began reading the closest one.

* * *

The house of Beregond was once again filled with a company of voices. Two men sat with the captain in his great circular room. Both were clad in the uniform and livery of the White Company and although they were younger than Beregond, they both carried a wariness of face that could only be contributed to long stays in a war-torn wilderness. And such was the case, for Beregond had recruited them from the Rangers of Ithilien following the War of the Ring. So loved they the Lord Faramir that they agreed to follow him where he would go. Their attire was identical, white leather covering their chests, emblazoned with the White Tree and Silver Leaf. Their boots rose high and grey were the garments under all of these.

One of the two, the fairer of face and lighter of hair, wore on a chain around his neck a silver key. This was Damrod, Master of the Gate of Minas Estel and the Second Commander of the White Company. The other was shorter by only scant inches with hair of dark raven and a scar on his right cheek. Aside from the arms of the White Company, he had at his side a dagger of special magnificence, wrought with the shape of vines streaming from hilt to blade. Mablung was he, Master of Arms of Ithilien and First Commander of the White Company.

Bergil was also close at hand, though not seated at the main table. Sitting in a seat near the wall by a window that looked out on the sixth circle of the city, he squirmed this way and that, his ears ever open to the conversation and his eyes dancing with excitement.

The three men, who together made up the currently established command of the White Company, had assembled to address a problem of special import; that of swelling their ranks. Although they had a respectable number of men, they had not numbers near enough to keep safe a city the size that Minas Estel was to be. They had recruited from all ranks of the Guard of the White City and had enlisted only a comparable few for with the return of the king, the greater honor was seen to be a guard of Minas Tirith. Consequently, Beregond, Mablung, and Damrod only commanded half the number they needed.

"Is there no where else that we may recruit?" Beregond asked with a high tone of irritation in his voice. "Are you certain we've visited requests upon all the companies of the Rangers?"

"Quite certain, Captain," Mablung answered, "and while most enlisted out of loyalty to Lord Faramir, a great number perceived their part in war to be over or were simply aging beyond their ability to fight. Or so they say."

"And the Citadel Guard?"

"Very few came to us from there," Damrod stated, "they are niggards, all. One guard even likened joining our company to bedding a comparatively ugly whor-"

Beregond cleared his throat very loudly, casting an unhappy glare at Damrod. He jerked his head over his shoulder at his young son. Damrod reddened slightly and said nothing further.

"We will get little help from the Citadel Guard, then," Beregond finished the line of reasoning, "what of Lord Imrahil's Swan Knights?"

"We might have had more from them," said Mablung, "if Damrod hadn't mentioned how far from open water Ithilien is."

"I simply described the land to them as I know it," Damrod defended himself, "how was I to know most of them grew up as fishermen?"

"Ever your tongue has proven to be disconnected from your mind, Damrod," Mablung rejoined, "even since the days of our childhood."

"You're not still holding _that_ against me, are you?"

"Gentlemen," Beregond interrupted, "let us remain on the task at hand. What of the Green Knights of Pinnath Gelin, the footmen of Ringló Vale, the bowmen of Blackroot Vale? Have none joined us from them?"

"All are loathe to leave their lands so far off, captain," Mablung answered, "there are none left to ask."

Beregond gave a heavy sigh as he stood up from his chair. He began to pace back and forth in thought. "Surely, our Lord Faramir deserves better than this," he bit out, "the White Company will be all too sparsely manned if we do not find others to recruit."

"Father," Bergil suddenly piped up from his seat near the window. He was backward in the chair, one hand on the seat back and his knees bearing his weight. His other hand pointed out the window. "What about them?"

Puzzled, Beregond and his two commanders wandered over to the window and looked out. There, across the narrow street, some houses had been set aside for the Rohirrim of Lady Eowyn's escort. The horse-masters were presently outside, making a merry raucous around two barrels of ale they had brought with them. One played a shrill fiddle, two danced with frothing mugs in their hands, and the rest all sang and clapped with the tune.

Beregond considered the group for a moment, his eyes long staring at the blond heads and bearded faces. "Theirs is a lively bunch, is it not?"

"Captain Beregond," Damrod protested, "you can't seriously be considering-"

"And why not?" Beregond asked. "After all the Lady Eowyn is herself Rohirrim. Those who have joined us already join because of their love for Lord Faramir. Why should these men be denied the opportunity to continue serving their lady?"

"But Captain, this is simply not done," Mablung protested, "this is to be a company of Gondor. You have not the authority to bring foreigners into it."

"But, I do indeed," Beregond stated as he left the window and began to cross the room toward the doors of the house, his commanders hot on his heels and his son following some steps behind, "the king has given Lord Faramir leave to assemble his company as he will and Lord Faramir has entrusted the task to me. 'Recruit from where you see fit,' he said and I see fit to recruit these men."

The two commanders continued to protest until well after they were within earshot of the company of Rohirrim. Luckily, the horse-lords' merry making managed to drown out what Beregond was unable to hush. The four members of the White Company remained on their side of the street, watching the Rohirrim dance and listening to their joyous music. To Bergil, who had heard nothing but the music of Gondor all his life, the song seemed lighter than anything he knew. Absent was the restrained grace of joyful Gondorian lays. This song seemed to rejoice in the simplicity of singing itself.

_Our paths were long_

_But our horses quick_

_We'll sing a song_

_And we'll drink a drink_

_Brothers well-met_

_Enemies beware_

_Our swords are blessed_

_By a lady fair!_

_Ale flows strong_

_Down a rider's throat_

_And back comes a song_

_Up a rider's throat_

_And no fairer_

_Is a hall so held_

_Than the golden halls_

_Of Meduseld!_

The one playing the fiddle ended his song with a great, resonating chord and the rest of the men each held aloft their steins in a cheer. A moment later all were drained and there was a shuffle at the barrels for refills. The fiddle player put aside his instrument and took a pull from his own mug, then cast a glance over at the commanders of the White Company, taking note of them for the first time.

"Well!" he exclaimed, standing and holding his half-filled stein up. "Look at this, my friends! It seems to my eyes that four ghosts have taken it upon themselves to visit our merry-making!" Here, he threw back the rest of what was in his mug. "What curse do you bring, ghost men? Does our song upset you? Or do you simply long for a descent drink?"

Beregond took that as an invitation and walked over to the Rohirrim. Damrod, Mablung and Bergil still following behind.

"T'would be a curse to be a ghost, I should say," Beregond answered in a tone to match the Rohirrim's friendly taunting, "for it is said that once a man passes there is no more ale to be had!"

"Drink then!" said the Rohirrim, tossing Beregond his stein. "And prove that you haunt us not!"

The way to the nearest barrel was cleared and the Captain filled the mug to the brim. As the Rohirrim, his two commanders, and his son watched with expectation, he lifted it to the sky in toast, then filled his belly with the entire contents. The Rohirrim gave a mighty cheer to that and Bergil and the two commanders were each handed full mugs. Beregond snatched Bergil's from his hand before he could drink, trading it with his empty one.

"Surely you don't wish to deny the boy his ale," said one of the Rohirrim by the barrels.

"Nay, but I should think he would require less."

"Féolaf, a half a pint for the half pint!" exclaimed the fiddle player. "Well met, my brothers in arms of Gondor, well met! Tell me your names so that I may know with whom I drink this day."

"Beregond I am, Captain of the White Company. And these are Mablung and Damrod, my commanders, and Bergil, my son."

"Léowine, am I," answered the fiddle player, "Captain of the White Lady's company. And we drink with merriment for now our lady has come again to the place that has brought her such joy of late."

"You would share in her joy, then?"

"Aye, for shared joy becomes all the greater. T'was her gift to us, this ale, on the condition that we partake in both."

"To the joy of the White Lady, then," Beregond said, lifting his stein. Léowine agreed, meeting Beregond's mug with another of his own that had come from places unknown and they both drank again. "So, tell me, horse-captain; now that you have discharged this mission, what plans do you make?"

"We are to remain in Minas Tirith, to prepare for Eomer-king's coming," Léowine answered, "and then, after we have given our fair White Maiden to the keeping of your Steward and your Company, we shall ride back to our own lands. And our hearts will be all the heavier for we will escort none so fair again."

"I would offer you another option, if you would hear it; one that would allow you to remain with your Lady."

"Then I would hear it."

"The White Company is in need of honorable men to offer their strength and skill. As yet, there is rumor of Orcs in Ithilien and I would not see our ranks too few to deal with them."

Léowine threw his head back in a laugh, letting it rumble from the top of his head to his ale-filled belly. "Men of Rohan in a Gondorian company! Well, there is a pretty idea! I like it! And it would do me great honor to continue to serve my fair Lady Eowyn. And many more I know would come from Rohan if called to such a duty."

"Then, pray, give no oath or bond on it yet," Beregond said, "for long ago it was learned by Fëanor of the Eldar and his sons the price of an oath taken in haste or broken. I will hear no promise from you on it until you have entreated with Eomer-king and he has released you from his own service."

"Aye, aye, well said, my friend," Léowine replied, "but I doubt not that the King would agree. After all, someone has to teach you Gondorian men how to raise a good horse and how to ride!"

"And someone must teach you men of Rohan to craft a good sword."

"Father," Bergil said, suddenly appearing at Beregond's side and tugging at his brace-clad arm, "what exactly goes into ale?"

Beregond looked down at his son, taking note of a positively ill look to his face. The boy looked nearly green, in fact, and he swayed back and forth slightly as if rocking with the motions of a ship. "Bergil, did you drink that entire stein already?"

"Well, I thought you were supposed to drink it fast," the boy replied, "so, after I finished my first one the same way you did, they gave me another half mug. But, I don't feel so well, now."

Beregond blinked stupidly, not sure how to handle what could very well be a delicate situation. He did not wish to offend, but he did not wish his son to be ill, either. Luckily, Léowine rescued him from having to be unpleasant to either one.

"Perhaps he should be taken home, Master Beregond," he said, "Rohirric ale is not for the pure of heart, the first time out, and our young master here seems to have done his share."

"I would quite agree," said Beregond, taking Bergil's empty mug and handing it and his own back to Léowine. He crouched down on the ground, his back to Bergil. "Come on, then. Up you go." Bergil obliged and crawled up onto his father's back, trying to adjust for nonexistent movements of the earth. Beregond stood once again, his son's green face peering over his shoulder. "I will take my leave of you, Master Léowine."

"And I shall send the first of my riders who is once again sober to Edoras tomorrow with word for Eomer-king," the Rohirrim answered, "until the morrow, then."

* * *

Faramir spent considerable time in the Minas Tirith archives, sorting old scrolls, sifting through documents, many of which threatened to fall apart at the slightest of wrong motions. The one he was seeking was buried somewhere among them and it proved to be the most elusive. So much so, in fact, that Faramir began to wonder if it actually existed at all. Perhaps it had been some strange illusion, originating in his own mind.

The narrow shaft of light that poured in from the thin window of the archive reading chamber had lengthened considerably by the time he found what he was looking for. It harshly fell across his table, illuminating the parchment and tiring his eyes. After no small amount of time studying it, Faramir put the scroll down and rested his tired face in his hands. The next he was aware of the time, the room was dark save for a candle by the door and a chime somewhere far off was sounding an hour near midnight.

Sighing a heavy sigh and cursing himself for falling asleep, Faramir scrawled a quick message on a stray piece of paper, bundled up the scroll, and rose with both in hand. Blowing the candle out, he left the archives.

The chill of late October was in the air outside and the courtyard of the Citadel reflected the silver light of the stars and the moon. As a cool wind blew, Faramir found himself wishing for his cloak, so his steps hastened. He came to the house of the King a few moments later and entered the great front hall. Spying a prominent table, he left the scroll where it would be seen with the note attached.

_To my King Elessar,_

_ The solution to our problem._

_ Ever in your service,_

_ The Steward._

Faramir left the silent and dark hall and exited tot eh courtyard once again, making his was toward the house of his father. Briefly, he considered calling on Eowyn before retiring, but saw that the light in her window had long since darkened for the night. A stray thought of guilt found him and he promised he would find more time to attend her the following day.

He was about to find his own chamber for the night when some other force stopped him in his tracks. Faramir's gaze fell on the door to Rath Dinen, the Silent Street. A single citadel guard, the door warden who was on duty, stood just to the side keeping vigilant watch. The Steward found himself moving toward it with some strange sense of purpose in his step. The door warden came to attention.

"Open it," Faramir told him softly, "allow none to pass until I return."

The door warden nodded his understanding and unlocked the gate. Faramir opened it and stepped through. Slowly, he walked down the street, not even hearing the gate close behind him as he went. Rath Dinen seemed to have been aptly named that night as his footfalls were swallowed by the stone all around him. His pace slowed further as he neared the street's end, the steps becoming harder and harder to take. Finally, the crumbled and blackened stone of the House of the Stewards came into view and his feet failed him, bringing him to a halt.

Long Faramir stood there, his eyes fixed on the burned and ruined place of his father's death. When the strange trance ended, he fell to his knees and wept in the street where none could see or hear. The tears fell uncontrolled for what seemed like long hours.

"You shed tears that should have been shed long ago," came a voice from behind him, ethereal and otherworldly.

Startled by the intrusion, Faramir whirled around and came to his feet. He saw there the fair face of Queen Arwen, the moonlight rivaling and yet lighting her features, dancing in her dark hair.

"My Queen Undomiel," he stammered out, dropping into an embarrassed bow, "forgive me; I thought you had retired for the night."

"Restless have been my dreams this night," she stated, paying no heed to Faramir's need to apologize, "and yours. You mourn but late and hide your grief."

"I would not give it to others," Faramir said, "it has no place in this joyous time."

"Would you say the same to those who lost loved ones on the field of the Pelennor? Or the Morannon?"

"Nay, my lady," he replied, "but neither do they reflect the mood of all Gondor. It should not be given that the Steward weeps for the return of the King."

Somehow, Arwen's eyes become softer and more determined in the same instant. After casting a glance at the ruins of the House of the Stewards, she turned back toward the gate at the top end of the Silent Street. "Come with me," she said.

Faramir followed, his boots suddenly seeming to make an incredible racket with each step compared to the silent footfalls of the Queen. For the first time, Faramir noticed that she as barefoot. He had a compulsion to say something on it, but it was somehow drowned by a greater need to keep the strange spell that had been cast.

The Queen led the Steward beyond the door and into the open space of the Citadel once again. The door warden closed the gate behind them and locked it, giving them both a solemn bow. Arwen moved onwards, never once turning back to Faramir to see if he was following. And follow he did, never faltering until the Queen climbed the stair to the entrance of the Tower of Ecthelion. There, he paused as she opened the door, his right foot upon the ground, his left upon the first stair, the darkness inside the tower yawning at him through the open door. His voice would no longer be restrained.

"What purpose have we in the tower, my lady?" he asked.

Standing upon the top stair, Arwen turned and looked down at him. "it is not your father's death that grieves you. It is the madness that brought him to it that you fear."

Faramir shifted uncomfortably. "The King tells my lady much."

"But naught of this," she replied, "the One Ring did not test you, Faramir, son of Denethor. You know what it is that you must face. Gaze into it or remain as you are."

His hand becoming a fist, Faramir steeled himself and slowly climbed the stairs. Arwen led him on and the entered the tower. Up the stairs wound and up they took them, their pace never breaking nor their rhythm failing. They came at last to the secret door that had only recently been revealed to Faramir and opened it. Behind it were more stairs and the Steward and the Queen climbed those also.

They came at last to the topmost chamber of the Tower of Ecthelion. Round it was with a single seat facing east. In the center was a pillared stand, its top covered by a cloth of black that bulged with something the shape of an orb beneath it. As Faramir watched, Arwen lifted the cloth from the stand and lo! there revealed one of the Palantiri. Black it shown with naught but empty space within. And yet, there faded in and out of existence two hands aflame with a fire that reeked of madness. The Anor Stone, it had been called in ancient days, for it had been there since the white city had been called Minas Anor. But now, its glory was dimmed forever by the madness of Denethor II, son of Ecthelion II.

Faramir became entranced by the flames within the stone. His eyes saw nothing else in the room. A whisper came to him, his name spoken by a wind from no where.

"You would have me look into the Seeing Stone," Faramir finally said to Arwen, "it was this orb that moved my father to fire and death."

"Few have the will to master the Palantiri," said Arwen, "and fewer still the will to bend this to sights other than this fire."

"And still you would have me look?" The stone called his name again and Faramir moved his hand toward it.

"You would have yourself look."

"I do not deny it," Faramir said, "this is my test and I would not see it ungiven."

Arwen was silent, then, standing near the single seat and watching. For Faramir, all else but the Palantir fell away and it became the world. His name whispered on the wind filled his ears and the dancing flames within the stone brightened, finally flaring when his hands met the smooth surface.

The hands within the Palantir grasped his with a grip of iron and when he pulled his hands away, the seeing stone came with them. All the while, it called Faramir's name, never ceasing, repeating it over and over like some desperate chant.

Something in the whispered voice of the stone compelled Faramir into motion. As Arwen passively watched, the Steward took the stone, its flames lighting his face, and began descending the winding column of stairs. Silently, as always, she followed him, coming to a halt just outside the door of the tower, upon the top stair. Faramir continued onward, the Palantir flaring in his hands.

The Palantir now acted as a beacon in the night of the citadel and it alerted the citadel guards to its presence. Several of them made desperate gasps of surprise and lapsed into confused motion. Faramir paid them no heed, continuing onward down the stone keel of the mountain, toward the bastion there.

Someone had alerted Beregond and he and his son were the first of the White Company to come. Leaving Bergil behind, the captain went to his lord and stood in front of him.

"My lord, where do you bear the Seeing Stone?" he asked in confusion.

Faramir paused, turning empty eyes upon Beregond, as if seeing through him. "He calls" he answered, "I would go to him. Do not hinder me." And Beregond saw that the flames of the Palantir were in Faramir's eyes and he staggered back. Faramir's eyes once again rested on the bastion and he moved on.

"Devilry!" Beregond cursed. "What madness would steal my lord's wit? Surely, this is the darkness reborn!"

"Nay," came a wiser voice from over Beregond's shoulder. He turned to it and found there the King Elessar. "'Tis but a shadow that has remained in some closed off crevice. But fast! He makes for the bastion and I perceive he means to travel far beyond it. We must halt him!"

"Am I asked again to disobey my lord's order?" Beregond asked in despair.

"This is not his order," said the king, "and I say to you if we do not stop him, he will die."

"He didn't tell _me_ not to do anything," came the small voice of Bergil. Before any could stop him, the boy raced forth, grasping Faramir's elbow as the Steward came to the steps of the bastion. "My lord, please stop!" he plead. "Something has taken hold of you!"

"No!" Faramir replied, never looking to Bergil. "He calls me to him with love. Never have I heard it from him. I would go to him." He began to climb the bastion stairs, Bergil still clinging to his arm.

The King was in motion now, perceiving that the boy had failed and looking to hinder the Steward himself. But seeing that he would not make it, he called to the bastion guards. "Halt the Steward!" he cried. "His vision is not his own!" The guards closed in around Faramir, locking their arms together and ensnaring him upon the wall.

The Palantir in the Steward's hands flared once again, its flames filling the air and pushing Bergil and the guards back, shielding their eyes. Elessar came to the bastion, but was held back, blinded by the white-hot light. His obstacles dispensed with, Faramir climbed upon the narrow edge of the wall and held the Palantir aloft. He whispered something up at it, the sound lost amid the cacophony of flames.

"Faramir!" cried a desperate voice from far back. The Lady Eowyn had come. She was trying to go to her beloved, but was held fast by Beregond and others of the White Company. Call to him was all she could do.

The Steward paused, his head whipping around to her voice, looking beyond the Palantir and seeing her with despair in his eyes. Taking a backward step off the bastion wall, he looked again to the stone. "I am called two directions," he said to it, "I would not leave her yet." Faramir stared long at the stone, as if taming some wild beast with his eyes. Finally, he shook his head in confusion. "No," he said, "no. You are but an echo of thought. He remains not in this base rock. Heed me, Seeing Stone of Numenor, for I am Faramir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor, heir to the house of Hurin, and your master! And I would see other things this night!"

To all assembled, it seemed as if a great cry of anguish came from the Palantir. Slowly, the flames faded, yielding to black in the heart of the stone. Long Faramir stared into it and for but a moment, a glimmer of blue-white shown from the center. As quickly as it had appeared, it vanished and sweat broke out upon Faramir's brow. The Palantir fell black and silent once again and the Steward fell limp to the floor of the bastion wall. Leaving his hands, the stone rolled down the stairs and halted there. Elessar quickly threw his cloak over it and gathered it up as Eowyn, Bergil, and Beregond went to their fallen lord.

"What madness took him?" Eowyn despaired, resting Faramir's head upon her lap. "What darkness is upon him?"

"I know not, my lady," Beregond answered, "I fear for his awakening."

"Fear not for that," the king said, coming to them and looking upon Faramir, " he but slumbers as is natural. He has faced a foe that was for him stronger than Isildur's Bane. Take comfort that he sleeps so soundly. Beregond, take him to his chamber. I will come to attend him shortly."

"I shall not leave his side," Eowyn proclaimed as Beregond lifted Faramir on to his shoulder. She placed herself beneath the Steward's other arm and walked with Beregond toward the noble house of Hurin.

"Neither shall I," Bergil said, trailing behind them.

Elessar watched them go as the citadel guards slowly took up their positions once again, confused and murmuring amongst themselves. He came to the foot of the Tower of Ecthelion and there met his Queen.

"You had a part in this?" he asked.

"Only the part of the messenger," she replied, "I brought to him what was within him but what he perceived was without."

Elessar sighed and nodded in agreement. "I only hope it has not cost Gondor her gentle Steward." He continued within and the Palantir was placed back where it belonged in silence.

* * *

And Faramir was laid, sleeping, in his rooms. There, sitting near him, were Eowyn, Beregond, and Bergil. They left not his side until the sun was high the next day.

It was late in the day by the time Elessar finally had to send Faramir's three loyal attendants away on nothing less than the authority of his order. "For Gondor is currently without her Steward and no help will you give her if you yourselves are exhausted," he said to them. Eowyn was the most loathe to leave and hesitated the longest, but finally left, conceding the King's point. In their stead, Elessar sat and waited for Faramir to awaken. He brought with him the scroll that Faramir had left him and passed the time reading it, but could not understand how it was going to help him due to its highly legal and archaic language.

Faramir finally awoke not long after sunset. With a soft voice and kind words, the King welcomed back to the land of the living. When the Steward's eyes finally focused and he saw who was sitting near him, he sighed heavily.

"Ai, Valar," he exclaimed in a whisper, looking to the heavens, "once again, I lie idle in the presence of the King."

"You slept for nearly a day," Elessar told him, "your company has been quite worried."

Faramir blinked, pushing himself up against the headboard. "Eowyn was there," he said dreamily, "I remember her voice. And… Master Beregond?"

"And Bergil," the King confirmed with a nod.

"It would seem," said Faramir, "that I have made something of a spectacle of myself. The Palantir?"

"Back in its place in the Tower. It is safe."

Faramir looked away, his gaze coming to the window beyond Elessar's shoulder. Stars were once again in the sky and he looked at them as if studying some far-off ghost. "My Lord, I have failed you. The Anor Stone bewitched me. I had not the will to stop it."

"That was not what I perceived, Lord Steward," Elessar replied, "true, it took you in the beginning, but you mastered it before the end."

"T'was not my mastery. T'was the calling of others."

Once again, Elessar dropped his kingly guise and it was once more Aragorn that spoke. "My friend, I would like to counsel you in this," he said, "and for that, I would know what you saw in the Anor Stone."

Faramir pondered this for a long moment but finally managed to untangle his memory enough to speak. "It spoke to me," he said, "in the voice of my father. The voice was somewhere between the living and the dead, as some cursed soul wandering the land. It was real and yet a dream, some half-remembered mongrel of sleeping and waking.

"'See?' it said. 'He calls for me! Do not take him from me!' And I wished to go to him, for the voice was desperate with anguish. 'Come to me, my beloved son. I would right the wrongs I have made against you,' it said, and hands reached for me, ensconced in flame. I could do naught but go."

"You saw once again your father's death?" Aragorn asked.

"Yes," Faramir answered, "but more, I saw his love. I was but a young boy when I saw it last."

"My father died when I was a boy," said Aragorn, "I know well the absence of a father's love. I understand how it can call. But, pray, what called you back?"

"Eowyn," Faramir sighed, "she called with a love that equaled my father's. And I recalled her golden hair. Her light cut through the darkness and flame and led me back. I remembered what it was that I gazed into and resolved to turn its gaze.

"'Send me not away!' it cried. 'I will hinder your gaze! It will be a battle!' I told it that I would fight back and fight I did, finally turning its gaze.

"Eastward I turned to look, and there saw a sight most strange. Hands built a structure, crude and monstrous. It rose from rubble most foul. Figures passed my gaze. Orcs they were, horrifying fast and efficient as if pushed by some force that frightened even them. And then it entered my mind from places unknown that it was through the eye of the Ithil Stone I saw."

"Mordor," Aragorn breathed, "something moves?"

"I know not with certainty," said Faramir, "it is not known where Sauron kept the Ithil Stone. Perhaps it is some unknown nest of foul beings that remains. But more, there was someone else watching. Angered he was to be seen and surprised by it. As soon as we noticed each other in the stones, he shrouded his face and masked himself with a strange cloud of mist. I tried to push through it to see him, but I was met with an attack

"'Who dares to look upon me?' he cried. I did not answer and he struck again. I could not see and so could not defend myself. It was not long ere I was forced to flee, beaten and defeated. I returned to myself and the darkness took me. My lord, someone else masters the Seeing Stones."

"This is most curious and alarming," said Aragorn, "who would have such an ability?"

"I know not," said Faramir, "and more curious, who in Mordor would have such a will? I know in my heart that the Enemy no longer lives. But certainly, no mere Orc could master the Ithil Stone."

"This troubles me," said Aragorn, "a will moves to match that of one who could move to Anor Stone to see other things. He uses trickery and hides to attack his foe rather than face him openly."

"I could not see him," said Faramir, sadly, frustrated, "I could not force him to show himself. I failed in this."

Aragorn saw that Faramir's mood was downcast. In a show of both friendship and confidence, he put a hand on the Steward's shoulder. "You bring us more information than we had," he said, "we know now that something moves yet in the east, even if we know not what it is. But, beyond that, you proved your will; you turned the Anor Stone eastward."

"It means nothing. My father did the same."

"And you bested your father's will."

"That was _not_ my father."

Aragorn shook his head, agreeing with Faramir's assertion. "No, t'was not. But I have since looked into the Palantir as well and parleyed with what is there, locked inside. And I say to you that it was that part of your father's will that remained after Sauron stole it from him, twisted by the Stone. It calls for you still. And you resisted it in order to remain. You have proven that the blood of Numenor does indeed run clear in you."

"Perhaps," said Faramir with a sigh, "but I say that that grief is too raw, too course to face again. Never will I look into the Anor Stone again and I pray you do not ask me to."

Aragorn nodded in understanding. "It shall be so. But know that I have the utmost confidence in you."

"That brings me comfort, my king."

"Then I am glad. Now, on to other things less sensitive, but perhaps just as daunting." He held up the scroll that Faramir had left him. "Please explain this. How does it pertain to the problem of overzealous petitioning? I have read it several times and it seems to me to be an historical record of a legal ruling, but by my eyes, I cannot understand it past the words themselves. Westron it may be, but more legal than I can decipher."

Faramir smiled, a bit of a glint in his eye, now. "It speaks to precedence, my lord," he said, "when Mardil Voronwë, my ancestor and the first Ruling Steward, took office, he found himself similarly inundated by frivolous requests. The times were chaotic and the sudden absence of a king made it necessary to enact a great amount of restructuring. Steward Mardil had not the time to deal with all the requests made to the House of Anarion, so he went to the Council of Lords for a ruling. It was then decided that one house was not responsible for the contracts of another, even if it was the house in power at the time."

"So Mardil was absolved of responsibility to the king's contracts," mused Aragorn, "that I understand. But the requests coming to me now are those from the time of the kings. How does this ruling free _me_ of them?"

"Of old, the kings of Gondor were of the line of Anarion. You are descended from Isildur. Though they were brothers, they eventually established two separate lines, separate houses, in Gondor and Arnor. Further, you have established your own house, Telcontar, a new house."

Faramir finished his explanation and Aragorn looked at him with no small amount of skepticism, cocking an eyebrow. The Steward responded by raising both of his own, grin widening. It was infectious and soon Aragorn was grinning as well, allowing a chuckle to come.

"Ai, Faramir!" he exclaimed. "This is simplicity! Never would I have thought of such a solution."

"Indeed, for you did not know of it, my lord. The scroll was buried in the Archives with nearly two fingers of dust upon it."

"However did you know of it?"

"Mithrandir was ever a source of magnificent history. He was there when the ruling was made."

Their conversation continued amicably for some time and Aragorn saw that some great weight had been seemingly been lifted from Faramir's shoulders. The talk turned to any number of things, most of them of an unofficial nature, and for the first time they spoke purely as friends. From then on, there was a new understanding between the Steward and the King. The hour grew quite late as they spoke and soon Faramir's concentration began to slip. The younger man clearly required more sleep.

"I should leave you to rest," Aragorn finally said, rising from his seat, "I may be the King, but I fear the stubborn authority of your betrothed should I exhaust you further."

"As I do," Faramir agreed, "I, for one, would not dare to tangle with such a maiden."

"It may be unavoidable for you, in the end," said Aragorn, "you _are_ marrying her in two weeks' time."

"I really must speak with the healers about this terrible burning upon the skin of my ears," a voice came to them from the door. There stood the lady Eowyn, clad in a dress of blue and whimsical of face. "My King Elessar, do you seek to bother my beloved and disallow him his needed rest?"

"Nay, Lady Eowyn," Aragorn said, "I was only just now bidding Lord Faramir dreams more pleasant than those of yesternight."

"You have made your bidding known, then," she said, "my lord needs rest. And clearly, he needs it now."

Aragorn smiled kindly. "You two are well-matched," he said, then turned back to Faramir. "Good night, Lord Steward. I am glad you are well. Do not think I underestimate when I say that I would be lost without your guidance, adrift in matters of this fair country that I could not comprehend."

"Ever in your service, my king," Faramir answered.

"Good night, Lady Eowyn," Aragorn said on his way out.

"Good night, my lord," she answered. Once the king was gone, she went over to Faramir. The Steward shuffled aside a small ways and she sat next to him on his bed, unwinding her hair. "Whether from Rohan or Gondor or the scattered chiefdoms of the North, men all have one common trait; they will not properly rest when rest is needed most."

"Eowyn, you should not speak so to the King," said Faramir, "it is highly improper. And though he may mind it not, there are others who would find great offense."

She reached over and put a hand to his cheek, silencing him gently. He melted into her touch, shoulders sagging as he relaxed. "A wise point, beloved, but there are no others present. And if it caused you to rest, I would speak thus to Eru himself."

"Then I feel pity for Illuvatar," he said, putting his hand over hers, "for though He most certainly has foreseen your stubbornness, I doubt that even He has the will to face it."

Eowyn leaned over and hushed him with a kiss. The Steward sighed in joy afterward and sat looking upon her.

"The Palantir led me last night," he said after a moment, "and it was naught but you for which I returned. The Warden of the Houses of Healing may say that I finally healed you. But I say to you, t'was you that finally healed me."

* * *

King Elessar permitted Faramir to rise the next day seeing that he was once again sound of mind and had never been fully unsound of body. Beregond brought to both his lord and his lady his plan to include Léowine's men in the White Company and Eowyn was well pleased and Faramir agreed to it. They needed only Eomer-king's leave and the Rohirrim Féolaf was riding to see to it.

Early in the afternoon, Faramir and Eowyn were once again called to different tasks. The Steward was called to council with Beregond, Léowine, and the King in preparation for the arrival of Eowyn's brother from Edoras. The Lady, meanwhile, went to the Houses of Healing searching for the Madame Ioreth.

The houses were quiet this day and the healers had but a few charges. Yet still, somehow, Ioreth proved to be quite elusive. Eowyn wandered the houses for a time and it seemed to her reminiscent of days past when she had been disallowed to leave; they had been maddening, but not entirely without joy, she recalled. She had just finished wandering the gardens, the very spot where she had first met Faramir, when she heard from within a loud crash followed hard upon by a yelp and a curse. A strange fog billowed from the hallway and it was quickly followed by Ioreth, fanning the air with a kerchief as she came. She looked to be quite harried and the bottom edges of her dress let loose traces of the same billowing fog from the hallway.

"Ai, Elbereth!" she exclaimed, a sour look upon her face, "how many time must those children be told not to play marbles in the halls? They're going to be the death of me yet, I daresay."

"Madame Ioreth," Eowyn greeted, "_westu hal_."

Ioreth spun around to face Eowyn with a gasp, one hand upon her breast in surprise. Quickly, she dropped into a courtesy. "My lady!" she exclaimed. "Forgive me. I was startled. And more than a little preoccupied, right enough."

"So I see," said Eowyn, casting a gaze past Ioreth and toward the rapidly dissipating fog still coming from the hall. "But the Warden told me that it was a quiet day in these halls."

"Oh, it may seem quiet today, my lady, but t'is period of cleaning, everything being moved back and forth and so on. So, I says to the Warden, 'we should organize our supplies whiles we're at it.' And he tells me to see to it. But I only have a day for it, so here I am running hither and yon with all manner of things in tow, and now here they are all over the floor and mixed and, by my eyes, smoke comes from the mess! I almost fear to try to clean it! Bless me! Oh, but here I am blathering on when I have heard naught of the Lord Steward since yesterday. How fares Lord Faramir?"

"He is well, Madame," Eowyn answered, "he meets with the King even now. T'was naught but exhaustion that took him."

"Oh, thank the Valar! I said just yesterday it'd be more than passing tragic if he were to fall ill now, so close to your wedding, my lady. If he shows up in my care now because he works too hard, Lord or no, I shall give him an earful, I will. And you can tell him so."

Eowyn laughed and took Ioreth by the arm. Together, they walked the garden. "I shall, Madame. And it will be enough to send him to bed ere the sun sets, lest you talk his ears into a box. But pray, stay your tongue a moment for I have a matter official to speak with you about."

"Aye, my lady? Pray, speak."

"The organization of Minas Estel and Ithilien is taking shape. Beregond, my betrothed's captain, is pulling together the White Company and to me Faramir has left matters more domestic in nature. The Houses of Healing in Minas Estel will need to be staffed and I would like you to be its Matron."

"Me, my lady? But, I am but a nurse."

"But well-gifted with caring and wisdom. A healer needs equal parts skill and maternal instinct and I can think of none better for the position. And I would have you choose your own staff."

"Well, I don't know how I can turn down an offer such as that. When the Houses of Healing are built in Minas Estel, I shall come."

"That brings me happiness. Now come. Tell me of these halls while I have been away. After all, we must somehow pass the time while that strange fog clears."

* * *

It was nearly a week later that the city was once again gripped in the throes of excitement. The day was clear, the sun bright in the east, and dew still rested upon the grasses of the Pelennor when a voice rang out from the bastion in the Citadel.

"Eomer-king approaches!" it proclaimed. "Comes the King of Rohan!"

Before long, the great gate of the city was surrounded by the denizens of Minas Tirith, voices raised in celebration and welcome. As Steward of the city, it was Faramir's task to make the official welcome at the gate. With the white rod of the Stewardship in his hand and Eowyn at his side, he went on foot from citadel to gate. And with them went Beregond and Bergil, bearing the colors of the Steward and the King.

However, this was not a greeting that Faramir looked forward to. A great demon of the nerve had seized him. As Eowyn's only remaining blood kin, Eomer was perhaps overly protective of his sister and Faramir was well aware of the lengths to which the elder Eomunding would go to defend her. Indeed, the two men's first meeting had not gone well as Eomer had found Eowyn and Faramir in the citadel courtyard engaged in a rather passionate kiss. Eowyn did her best to calm her betrothed as they walked.

"You worry needlessly," she said to him.

"He does not approve of me," said Faramir in reply.

"That is untrue. I have set my brother straight in the matter. He will not react so again, with tongue so sharp."

"Sharp? I believe his exact turn of phrase was _unhand my sister, you fork-tongued Gondorian manure-shoveler_. Aside from that, it is not his tongue, but his fist that worries me."

"T'was hardly a tap."

"My nose bled periodically for a week."

Eowyn paused long, considering. "The point is conceded. But," she hastened to add before Faramir could make reply, "as I said, I have settled the matter with him. And as you'll recall, he was naught but apologetic once he understood the situation, once he found that it was I who initiated the kiss."

"And once he remembered that he was King and that it could have made for a rather nasty diplomatic incident," Faramir appended.

"That too," Eowyn answered.

"Why do I feel as though I have been saved from the fire only to find myself amongst the Balrogs?"

"Because you worry needlessly."

They came now to the great gate of Minas Tirith and Faramir ordered it opened. The company of Rohirrim waited beyond with Eomer-king and his standard-bearer in the lead. All were arrayed in the ceremonial riding armor of Edoras, horses upon helm and breast and hauberk. The standard-bearer raised to his lips a horn and from it issued forth a blasting note, long sustained. The crowd at the gate gave a cheer as the Rohirrim entered into the city at last. The company went up the road and Eomer brought his horse to a halt before Faramir and Eowyn. The crowd hushed to hear their words.

"By the White Tree, the Seven Stars, and Crown and the Scepter in the name of King Elessar, and by the Rod of the Steward in my hand, Minas Tirith welcomes the King of Rohan." Here, he gave a brief bow.

In turn, Eomer and his standard-bearer dismounted and stood on equal footing with the Steward. "By horse and horn and the great sun above," proclaimed Eomer with a slight flourish to his voice, "the King of Rohan accepts the welcome of our brothers in arms."

Another cheer went up from the crowd and Eomer and Faramir took that moment to grasp each others' arms in friendship. In the din of cries of greeting, Eomer leaned in close to Faramir. "_Westu hal_, brother," he said.

The knot that had tied itself into Faramir's stomach suddenly unraveled and the Steward found himself marveling at the young king's ability to ease tensions. He smiled back and put a hand on Eomer's shoulder.

"_Mae govannen_, brother."

* * *

In that, the first year of the King, the long dawnless day was finally ended in the hearts of all the people in Minas Tirith. In the days that followed, Faramir and Eowyn were wed to much fanfare and joy. From Dol Amroth came the family of Prince Imrahil and from Mirkwood and Erebor came Legolas and Gimli. To the Elven Prince of Mirkwood, Faramir gifted a tract of land north of Cormallen and south of Wetwang marsh. There, a colony was settled by the Elfkind as a place of welcome to those who would not yet sail the Sundering Seas. In return, they pledged their support to Ithilien and Gondor. It seemed to all that the shadows had finally left Middle Earth and that peace was finally come.

But in the heart of the Steward of Gondor, doubt remained. Faramir could not help but believe there was still something remaining to be done. Something moved yet in the east, beyond the walls of Ephel Duath.

* * *

*********  
As always, none of this is mine, just borrowing it. It all belongs to the estate of JRR Tolkien, the master and professor.

Will there be more chapters of this? Oh yeah! You better believe it!

For those of you who decide to review (please? Pretty please?), one thing I'd like to know is any loose ends that seem to be dangling and that you'd like to see tied up by future chapters. I mean, aside from the obvious "hey! What's up in Mordor!?" question.

This is actually my second go at the chapter. A preen, if you will. Special thanks go out to the Stargazer_Nataku for her wonderful and constant upliftingness and obsession with the family of the Stewards, SomeJediGirl for her wonderful feedback, and Seigrun for her amazing and engaging conversations with me on all of this. You guys RULE! ^_^

I know there's a school of thought out there that Faramir wouldn't have been able to use the Palantir, that he didn't have the will. Obviously, I don't ascribe to that and here's why; it's pretty much directly debunked by Tolkien canon. In the essay in Unfinished Tales on the Palantiri, Tolkien states that the Palantiri essentially belong to no one individual or group. Rather, they "belong" to any who can use them. This has long included the Stewards of Gondor, but Denethor was simply the first to try in such a long time. It wasn't the Palantir that drove Denethor mad, but Sauron, and only after repeated courses. Had there not been that influence, Denethor would have been just fine and he would have had quite the edge during the War of the Ring, being one of the people who could effectively use the Palantiri. I reason that Faramir, being "of like mind" to Denethor and now the rightful Steward of Gondor would also be able to use them

And, for a little teaser for next chapter... just a name... Elboron. ^_^

Hope you enjoyed!


	2. Awakening of Fell Things

The Chronicles of Ithilien  
By Berzerkerprime 

Chapter Two: Awakening of Fell Things

Darkness was yet in the east. The fell plains beyond the Ephel Dúath screamed in horror and war. The Sun was blotted from the sky and shadows moved in its stead. 

Light did not begin until Ithilien. From there, it spread westward all the way to the western shores of Middle-earth and on into the uttermost west beyond the Sundering Seas. But it was in Ithilien that it met the darkness of the east. There, the two butted up against each other and did battle, mixing and mingling until the land was one of utter chaos. 

He stood at the Window on the West, watching this great battle. Turning, he found himself alone in the refuge. Battle still raged outside the window and he looked to it again. 

Now, he stood by the Forbidden Pool. His captain was there, standing in the water, ripples licking at his knees hungrily. The light and the darkness still raged in battle above them, reflecting in the water of the pool and exciting new waves which threatened to swallow the captain whole. 

A new light descended from the sky above, issuing forth from the encroaching darkness, blue against the monochrome of the refuge. A second light, burning just as blue but of a different quality, sprang from the reflected light in the water. The two met in the air and swirled around his captain, bringing the light and the darkness with them. Sound assaulted him, none the least of which were the cry of pain from his captain and the horrifying scream of a sundered peace. He had to look away from the melee. The sound then ceased and he looked back to the pool. All he found was his captain's sword rising from the pool, hilt upturned toward the sky... 

* * *

Faramir was released from the dream and he came awake with a gasp. Sitting up, he slowly forced his mind to focus and his breathing to slow. Next to him, he felt Éowyn stir, her arm reaching out for him. Not wishing to wake her, Faramir rose and found his cloak in the darkness. Feeling the cool night air on his skin, he left their bedchamber and walked out onto the balcony that overlooked the city.

He half expected to come to the scene familiar to his childhood; the citadel of Minas Tirith by night that he had so often gazed upon after his troubled dreams. But rather, it was his new citadel that he found himself gazing upon. 

Minas Estel, the Hill of Hope, situated on a cone of mountain at the northern tip of Emyn Arnen, was to be the new beacon of the Fourth Age, the symbol of renewed light and prosperity in Gondor. The first wall of a planned seven was already complete, encompassing the citadel proper. Three grand porches of stone broke the perfect circle, extending north, east, and west. To the south, where the cone joined to the mountain range, the base of a massive tower was being built, what was to be the great master tower of the citadel. Three towers at the tips of the stone porches were already completed and atop them the un-blazoned white colors of the Steward flew in the breeze. A great road wound up the cone, beginning at the bottom of the northern and greatest of the three stone keels. Back and forth it ran, turning back on itself after emerging from the tunnels under the west and east porches. The bastions of the outermost and greatest wall of the new city were nearly complete, as was the great north-facing gate. The second wall from the top was already being built as were two towers at the place where the road met the mountain, just outside the great gate. Where the road came into the citadel, at the opening to the tunnel, two statues stood to either side; one each for Eärnur, the last King of Gondor before Elessar, and Mardil Voronwë, the first Ruling Steward. They faced westward, looking across a fountain in the center of the citadel toward the River Anduin, Osgiliath, and Minas Tirith beyond. 

The House of the Prince was directly in front of the base of the great tower, adjoining to it to the north. Two small towers rose from it and the quarters of Faramir and his kin were in the western one. The balcony he was standing upon was in this tower and three stories below, Faramir could see the sapling trees of his fledgling gardens. 

The city was quiet, for now, and Faramir took the moment to breathe in its peace. From the faint glimmer of dawn now striking the tip of Mindolluin afar, he knew the peace would not last long and that soon the city would awaken and the sounds of construction begin anew. The wind blew chill as if to remind him of what had brought him to the balcony and he shivered, drawing his cloak in tighter. 

Footsteps reached his ears after several moments. Although they were soft and padded the floor lightly, Faramir's hearing, long trained to be alert to subtle sounds in the woods, heard them easily. He turned and found Éowyn leaning against the stone door frame, her blue and silver cloak upon her shoulders and her hair loose and waving slightly in the breeze. A hand rested on her overly-swollen belly and she looked at him with kind eyes. 

"Is our bed so crowded these days?" she said to him, jest in her voice. 

"I am sorry, I did not mean to wake you," Faramir replied, "the air called to me. That is all." 

Éowyn discarded the semi-flirtatious nature that she had come to the door with. She went to him as he turned back to look over the citadel and put her arm around his. 

"The dream again?" she asked. 

Faramir nodded with a sigh. "It is foreboding and yet I cannot tell why. The details slip from memory upon my waking." 

"It has come to you over and over again since you looked into the Anor Stone a year and a half ago. Have you still said naught of it to Beregond?" 

The Steward shook his head. "Not until I understand the dream's meaning. Telling Beregond would mean telling his son, as well. And they are very close. If I were to tell them of the dream, the boy would fear to lose his father. Preoccupation is a dangerous thing when learning to fire a bow. It may be that the dream means nothing, but Bergil will fear the worst of it." 

"You say it is for the boy's sake, but I perceive these words are spoken for your benefit. I can read the crease of your brow too well, husband-mine; you fear the dream's meaning." When Faramir said nothing in reply, she pressed further. "After all, the last time you had a dream such as this, you knew in your heart of the death of your brother." 

Faramir disentangled his arm from hers and turned to face her, shaking his head with equal parts confusion and dismay. "Nay, that was a dream with my waking eyes," he said, "this is not of that sort. It is different. That one gave me knowledge. In this, knowledge hides in the shadows." 

"Faramir, your words frighten me," said Éowyn, "when you speak thus, you drift from me, you move beyond my grasp. Do you not value my thoughts? My counsel?" 

"Nay!" Faramir answered, moving to her and embracing her. "Nay, do not think that. And Valar curse me if ever I should allow you to believe such. Nay, my beloved, you are the steady rock beneath my feet; ever my healer." 

"The child kicks." 

"Yes, I feel."

* * *

"I told you right enough, I did, Master Beregond. I daresay I told you." 

"Madame Ioreth-" 

"I told you, I did, and you went and did it anyway and look here, things have turned out just as I said." 

If it weren't for the fierce throb in his head, Bergil would have laughed aloud. There were few men in Minas Estel who could bring his father to silence, and indeed there were only two women. The first, the Lady Éowyn, had rank on her side. The other had naught but her mouth. 

"As I said," Beregond continued as Ioreth quieted somewhat to concentrate on dabbing at the small, red spot on Bergil's forehead, "he is a lad of twelve and it's high time he learned to use-" 

"Swords and daggers!" Ioreth spat the words out as if they were a curse. "Bow and arrow! Shield and mace! He's still too small, he is! Hasn't hit his growth spurt just yet, like the rest of the boys his age. They forget they have the further reach and look! See what happens!" Ioreth ceased her ministrations for a moment and waved a scolding finger in Beregond's face, either entirely disregarding or completely forgetting that he was Captain of the White Company or indeed that they were even in the Ithilien Houses of Healing at all. "His time would be better spent with books, I'd say. A sword isn't the only thing that makes a warrior great, especially of the Ranger kind." 

"Madame, I will bow to your knowledge of healing, but I will not be told of fighting and rangering by an herb mistress." 

"Ha! It's your mistakes that end up in my care! I daresay, you would do well to curb your arrogance!" 

And that was the straw that broke the horse's back. Bergil could no longer contain the building flood of laughter that was afflicting him and he let loose a snicker. Beregond and Ioreth halted their debate and looked at him sharply. Bergil clamped his mouth shut and struggled to regain a measure of composure and the two debating adults turned back to their conversation. 

"Will you please just take care of this so that we may all three return to our duties?" Beregond plead. "Bergil has lessons and I have considerable tasks of my own." 

"Oh, I'll patch him up, right enough," Ioreth replied, "but you'll have to return to your duties without him. I take no chances with bumps to the head. Why, I knew a man once who got hit in the head and slept for three days. When he woke, it was as if another man woke in his body; ill-tempered, thirsting for battle, as if the Dark Lord himself had bewitched him. No, Bergil shall remain here for the rest of the day. You may fetch him on your way home this night after your duties." 

"An amusing story, but Bergil sleeps not. Truly, Ioreth, you overreact!" 

"I'm afraid it's no use, Master Beregond," came a new voice from the door. Éowyn was standing there, holding a large crate of vials above her pregnant belly. "The Matron will not budge on matters of her work. You will lose this debate, I am afraid." 

Ioreth was instantly in motion once again. "By the Valar, are you all mad in this city?" she exclaimed as she went to Éowyn and took from her the crate. "I told you not to exert yourself so, my lady. No heavy lifting, for the child's sake!" 

"The crate is hardly bigger than my head, Ioreth. I would not call it heavy." She went over to Bergil and took a closer look at the wound on his head. "Besides, it would appear that you are busy and that you needed these herbs. How fares our captain's fearless son?" 

"I'm all right, my lady," Bergil said, rapping his head with his knuckles. "Head hard as a stone." Yet even as he said this, he winced, slightly. 

Near the cupboard in the room, as she was putting away the vials that Éowyn had brought, Ioreth could barely be heard muttering something about the inheritance of blood that Bergil had received from his father. Bergil couldn't quite make it out and decided not to press the issue when he saw his father fuming with a rather sour look upon his face. 

"Well," Éowyn went on, reaching for a bandage and wrapping it about Bergil's head to cover the wound, "it would seem that you are stuck here for the day. And, as I've been banished to the work of the frail, how would you like to keep me company? I shall tell you the story of Helm Hammerhand." 

Bergil's eyes brightened at the prospect of another of Éowyn's stories. He had heard many of the heroic tales of Gondor and most of them no longer held any suspense or surprise. But the stories that Éowyn brought with her from Rohan twisted and turned in ways he had never heard before and the lady told them not as epic lays seemingly too big for one person to hear but rather as though she had been privy to the thoughts of the old heroes themselves. 

"Can I father?" he asked eagerly. "Matron?" 

Breathing a deep, begrudged sigh, Beregond waved off his authority to Ioreth. 

"Well, I don't see how much trouble you can get into helping to prepare broths and soak bandages," said Ioreth, "but I'm quite certain the two of you together will find the method. Go on, then." 

Bergil hopped off the cot he had been sitting upon with a bright smile and together with Éowyn he departed the room for other quarters in the Houses of Healing. Beregond and Ioreth watched them go, the former with a small chuckle. 

"The Lady will make an excellent mother," he said. 

"Aye, that she will," Ioreth agreed, "and that boy could use the attentions of his own, to be sure. All too tragic she died all those years ago." 

Beregond's face turned to fond and bitter memory at that sentiment. "Aye, that it is and that he could. But, it would seem that Bergil has been somewhat adopted by the ladies of this new citadel. I have little doubt that he will turn out all right." 

Ioreth looked across the room at Beregond, her hands upon her hips and a pondersome look upon her face. "Yes, well, let us hope that it was his mother's wit and not his father's that he inherited." 

The captain was about to respond, but clamped his mouth shut once again, suddenly recognizing the matron's tone. They had bandied much the same back and forth for some time and Beregond was beginning to be able to read Ioreth's voice. At the moment, it carried no small amount of humor. And so, Beregond responded with a hearty laugh. 

"I'll take my leave of you," he said, "do try not to be overly hennish toward my son." He gave a short, sharp bow of the head toward her, then exited the room. 

"Well, certainly, someone must!" Ioreth called after him.

* * *

The White Company was made up of three smaller battalions, each with a certain task to see to. The men under Léowine's command were known as the Ithilrochonath, the Moon Riders. For the most part, they were comprised of the fair-haired and experienced riders that had been released from the service of Éomer-king in Rohan. They dwelt now in Ithilien in service to the lady Éowyn and her lord. The Rohirrim of the company had adapted well to their new positions and now wore the colors of Ithilien. They had been allowed to keep the horse-crowned helms and arms of their homeland in reverence of their migration. But each now wore a surcoat of white leather and carried a small dagger with the white tree emblazoned upon the hilt. 

However, among the heads of blond and auburn could be found a few men of tougher complexion and darker hair. Gondorians had come amongst these transplanted Riders of Rohan and were now wholly a part of the battalion. The greatest of rank of these was Iorlas, Beregond's brother, who now rode aside of Léowine as lieutenant of the battalion. Unlike his brother, he had not inherited their father's rather rare trait of tallness, tending instead toward the stature of their mother. In fact, he was nearly a full head shorter than Beregond. From their mother, also, he had taken a head of black hair which he stubbornly refused to cut. It was lashed to the back of his head in a tail that fell to the middle of his back. The brothers' difference in age was a rarity as well, as Iorlas had been a babe when Beregond was a full sixteen years of age. Neither had ever heard an explanation of this that was to their satisfaction, but Iorlas suspected in later years that he had been the accident of timing and a night of passion before his father had had to ride to a battle in Harondor to the south. 

The thirty or so Ithilrechyn riding that day traveled to the north of the Crossroads on a regular patrol of the area. Word of roving bands of Orcs had trickled down to them from the Ephel Dúath and they were taking no chances, the safety of their fledgling city paramount to them. 

Although the day was fair and the sun bright in the sky, a strange restlessness had come over the horses. The usually devoted mounts pricked their ears at the slightest of strange sounds and stamped their hooves while the company halted. Some seemed to be spoiling for a battle and others simply seemed to desire the homeward path toward safety. The strange murmur of darkness had then transferred to the riders. Where normally one might have found good cheer amongst the battalion, this day they were strangely silent. 

"This is more than passing odd," Léowine mused aloud to Iorlas. 

"Indeed," the Gondorian agreed, "the sun shines and yet darkness presses. I have not felt of this since the War. It is not so dark as that, but it is the same foul stench, none the less." 

The route of their patrol now turned the battalion east and they began to ride roughly in the direction of the abandoned Minas Morgul. After only a few minutes of riding, Léowine's horse, the black stallion known to the Rohirrim as Windmane, brought his hooves to a stubborn halt. Although Léowine did his best to coax the horse into motion, the willful stallion would have none of it. Windmane would go west, south, or north, but the eastward direction he refused. And so, the battalion came to a halt amongst the grasses as Léowine leaned forward, rubbing his horse's neck and speaking soft words in Rohirric. From atop his own painted mare, Menelovrel, Iorlas looked back at the rest of the Moon Riders and found several of them doing the same with their own mounts. 

Iorlas had spent his share of time as a Gondorian Ranger before he had joined his brother as a guard of the Citadel in Minas Tirith. He found the old skills he had acquired strangely active again, his senses open, his eyes scanning the area. The place the Ithilrechyn had come to was mostly open grass but for a patch of rock to their east and a stand of trees, that had been deadened by chocking vines, to their south. 

Something among the stones caught his attention, although he could not say what. Iorlas left his saddle and loosened the peace bonds on his sword. The stomping and snuffling of the horses dulled his hearing, so he stepped away from them by several paces, his eyes ever fixed upon the rocks. 

A quick movement came to his eye, the whip of a blackened helmet peering over the stone. An instant later, a whistle assaulted his ears and there was an impact in the ground near his feet. His legs faltered backward and he saw there an orcish dart, ragged fletching upturned and waving at the sky. 

Shouting a warning, Iorlas drew his sword, his feet carrying him back to the battalion. In front of him he saw the flashes of his company's swords as they were drawn. Behind, he heard the horrific war cry of evil voices as they issued forth from the rocks. 

"Form a line!" Léowine called to the Ithilrechyn as Iorlas found Menelovrel and leapt into his saddle. Once mounted, he set eyes upon their foes. They were Uruk-hai bearing terrible swords with roughly serrated edges and helms to shield their eyes from the sun. Iorlas guessed they numbered no more than twenty, but he had not the time to count as Léowine was calling for a counter-charge. 

The two companies met upon the field in a resounding clash that belonged to combatant armies much greater in size. As other battles raged about him, Iorlas came to his first foe in the middle of the fray. The Uruk-hai braced his feet wide and hewed at Iorlas' sword with two hands as the Gondorian's horse rode past. Their blades clashed together and the impact knocked Iorlas from his saddle. Menelovrel continued onward only to have her shoulder slashed by one of the Uruk-hai's compatriots. The orcish soldier was felled by a Rohirric spear only a moment later. 

Iorlas rolled, dodging his opponent's sword as it buried itself in the ground where his head had been. As the Uruk-hai pulled his blade from the dirt, Iorlas thrust his own weapon into the space between the Uruk-hai's helmet and breastplate. The Uruk-hai fell to the ground lifeless with Iorlas' sword caught in its flesh. He was wrenching it free as another of the fell beings bore down upon him, sword raised high. 

The Uruk-hai's head jumped from his shoulders an instant later and Iorlas found Léowine behind it as the body dropped. This victory was short-lived, however, as an orcish dart found its way to the commander's shoulder. Léowine spun, a hand to his wound and his legs giving way. Iorlas grabbed the spear that had so narrowly saved his horse a moment before and threw it at the Uruk-hai archer, slaying it. 

The rest of the battle moved off and the other Ithilrechyn soon made short work of their remaining foes. Iorlas went to Léowine who was slowly sitting up, his face twisted in pain and blood oozing through his fingers. Iorlas had spent a year in Léowine's company and as such had begun to learn part of the language of the Rohirrim. The words now issuing from the commander's mouth, however, he was quite certain he had not been taught. 

"Slow, my friend, slow," the Gondorian said, coming to the Rohirrim's side and bracing him by his good shoulder, "worry not, they are routed." 

"Their purpose was not to fight or hinder us," Léowine gasped out as Iorlas inspected his wound, "they patrolled as we do." 

"I agree," said Iorlas, "their numbers were too few for a sortie out of Mordor. By the Valar, you bleed! And the tip of the dart is all the way through! This is beyond the skill of any of us here." 

"Is anyone else wounded?" 

Around them, the rest of the Moon Riders were wandering the field, checking for Uruk-hai survivors. One was gently tending to the wound in Menelovrel's shoulder. 

"Only you and my horse bleed," Iorlas answered. 

Léowine struggled to his feet, even as Iorlas objected. "Then we ride for Minas Estel with all haste. Something is afoot here and we must warn Prince Faramir." Even as he said this, color drained from the rider's face and he swayed. Iorlas caught him just as his legs gave way again. 

"We shall ride with haste," said Iorlas, "but it shall be you and I together atop Windmane. Menelovrel is not fit to be ridden and you are not fit to ride alone."

* * *

As he had a number of times in the past year and a half in the accounting of men, Legolas found himself in the gardens of Minas Estel. Spring was come to the budding city and the infant gardens were populated by any number of green things, each of them now in bloom and splashing the scenery with blossoms of red and white and yellow. 

This day, Legolas had come from his own new city to the north, Galenost, bearing a sapling tree as a gift to be placed in the Steward's gardens. A pale silver was its skin and the drooping leaves upon its young branches would drop every so often, finally letting go of their tired grasp of the limbs. It had been growing under his care for some time, waiting for the day when it would be transplanted to its place of honor in the Ithilien citadel. 

Faramir had not known that the sapling was being brought; it was to be a surprise to celebrate the birth of his first child with Éowyn. Legolas wanted the surprise to be perfect and so came with the gardeners in his company to the citadel gardens before greeting the Prince. The Elves worked quickly to place the sapling, hoping to have it planted before Faramir came to find them. 

"Are you certain it will grow outside of Lothlorien, my lord?" a voice said at his shoulder. Upon turning, Legolas found it to be a female Elf of rather short stature, hair pulled into three tight braids and eyes set upon the sapling in wonder. She was clothed in armor of leather, a bandolier of throwing knives resting atop her green jerkin. In her hand she held a spear of unusual craft in her hand. It had two blades about a third of the way from the point which pointed backward along the haft. She had told him what the weapon was called, once, and Legolas thought he remembered the name "duom." 

"I believe it will, Hadoriel," Legolas responded, "Aragorn has received word from Master Samwise in the Shire that one of the trees grows there. Certainly, one may grow here, indeed. Where is Valithar?" 

"I have set him to waylaying the Prince Faramir and his captain. He has produced a temporary crisis in housing for our company and I do believe Captain Beregond is going to great lengths to prevent his own company from being displaced from their quarters." 

"A clerical error, I trust?" 

"Perhaps it is better that you do not know, my lord." 

"That is what I dread." 

With a laugh, Hadoriel went over to the two gardeners who were finishing the landscaping around the sapling. She directed and conversed with them, much to the chagrin of the gardeners, and was largely ignored. Once again, Legolas was reminded why she was one of his Rangers and not a simple maid; she was far too opinionated and her spirit simply refused to be swayed from its chosen course. 

The gardeners had just finished the planting and were giving the plants a last, healthy dose of water when voices sounded from the garden path. Legolas' sharp ears discerned the voice of Faramir's captain, his tone rather irate. He heard also the voice of his own Captain of the Bowmen, Aradól called Valithar in his own Nandorin tongue as he preferred, responding to Beregond in his own minimalist and short-clipped way of words. A few moments later and they both rounded the corner of the garden path, trailing behind a rapidly striding Faramir. As soon as the Prince caught sight of the new sapling, he stopped dead in his tracks, a look of wonder lighting his eyes. Beregond and Valithar all but ran into him and they instantly ceased their bickering. 

"_Na vedui_, Faramir," Legolas said, inclining his head in a bow, "I bring a present for your little one," he added, gesturing to the tree. 

"_Mae govannen_," Faramir replied(1), managing to say something into the middle of the peculiar silence that had followed and blinking rapidly as he took a few steps forward. In silence and with a growing smile upon his face, the Steward felt of the sagging leaves. "Oh, Master Legolas," he breathed, "this is the most beautiful yet. But it is spring and already its leaves drop. Was the journey here hard for it?" 

"Nay," said Legolas, "for its leaves are not already dropping. Rather, they are _finally_ dropping. It retains its leaves during the winter." 

"But I have never seen a deciduous tree that does this," said Faramir with awe, "true, legends speak of a tree in Elven realms that... Legolas, surely this is not a _mallorn_?" 

"Indeed it is. It was sent to me by the Lord Celeborn of Lothlorien." 

"Then, this is truly a great gift. It shall be treasured, Master Elf. I thank you greatly." 

"The joy upon your face is thanks enough," said Legolas with a half-conspiratorial smile directed at Valithar, "and the surprise." 

Faramir looked from one Elf to the other. Valithar made no visible reaction save for a barely perceptible twinkle deep in his eyes. Legolas and Hadoriel's smiles, meanwhile, broadened. 

"Ha!" Faramir laughed, catching on. "T'was a manufactured crisis, then! You did well to have Master Valithar bring it to me. I did not think him capable of such a ruse!" 

"I believe you'll find, Lord Steward," said Hadoriel, "that there are very few things of which Valithar is not capable, for all his antisocial habits. Why, once at Dol Guldor, I saw him shoot an arrow right into an Orc's-" 

"Thank you, Madame Hadoriel," Beregond interrupted, "but, as amusing as I'm sure the tale... _story_ is, I do not believe I need the image in my mind's eye." 

Hadoriel looked to Valithar. "My friend, I do believe I have found your equivalent among mortal Men," she said, "except, of course, that he talks much more than you ever-" 

She stopped mid sentence. The heads of all three Elves suddenly turned northward and sobered. Puzzled, Faramir and Beregond looked northward, but seeing nothing turned back to the Elves. 

"What is it?" Beregond asked. 

"Horns," Legolas replied. 

As if heeding a command from the Elf Prince, a note sounded from the great north gate of Minas Estel far in the lowest level. It sounded three times, then was silent, echoing off the stone of Emyn Arnen. A moment later and the three-fold peal was repeated. 

"Damrod has sounded the gate alarm," Beregond observed. 

"To the seventh circle," Faramir said, and he and his captain fled the gardens. Legolas followed a moment later, leaving Hadoriel and Valithar to finish his business in the gardens. 

The three of them were met half way to the gate by Aldegil, a member of Damrod's company, the Gate Guards. He fell into step a stride behind Faramir. 

"The Moon Riders return, my lord," he reported, "they sound the alarm as they come." 

"Are they pursued?" Faramir asked. 

"Not that we can see, my lord," Aldegil answered, "but we have seen from the gate at least one riderless horse." 

"The color of the horse?" Beregond asked. 

"Captain, it seemed to my eyes to be a paint." 

"Iorlas!" Beregond exclaimed, barely stifling it to a gasp. He nearly forgot himself and let his feet carry him forward all the faster, but managed to catch himself and cast a glance to Faramir in askance, first. 

"Go!" Faramir ordered his captain. Beregond obeyed readily and took off at a run toward the gate as Faramir brought Aldegil and Legolas to a halt in the street. "They may have wounded," he said to Aldegil, "go inform the healers. Legolas, we do not know what is amiss. It may be wise to bring your camp within the outer wall." With nods, both Aldegil and Legolas went on their fleetest feet to their tasks. Faramir, meanwhile, hastened to the outer gate. 

The Ithilrechyn were just coming through the gate when Faramir arrived. Iorlas was riding Windmane and he carried Léowine in front of him. The Rohirrim commander was unconscious, his head lolling forward over his chest and bobbing with the movement of the horse. Blood flowed from his left shoulder and covered his entire side. Wearily, Iorlas handed Léowine down to a pair of waiting gate guards, then dismounted and greeted the worried face of Beregond. 

"Fear not, brother," he said, "or rather, fear not for me but for Master Léowine. This blood is all his; I am unhurt." 

"Are there any other wounded?" Beregond asked. 

"Only my horse," Iorlas replied. He then looked to Faramir with a short bow of his head. "My lord, we were attacked by Uruk-hai. They were few, but ambushed us with dart and blade." 

"Where?" Faramir asked. 

"Four leagues north of here. A league north of the Crossroads. I believe they may have been scouting westward from the Ephel Dúath and the road from the Morgul Vale." 

"Can you take me there?" 

"If I take another horse." 

"You will have it. We will leave within the hour, once I have seen to Master Léowine." 

"I shall assemble a battalion of the White Company, my lord," said Beregond, "if we move quickly-" 

"Mablung and his men shall accompany me this time, Beregond." 

"But, my lord-" 

"I need you in Minas Estel to lead the rest of the company in my absence. The city must be well-guarded and Damrod will be busy at the gate watch. With Léowine wounded, the job is left to you or Mablung. You have the greater rank and authority, there will be no question who leads the men here if Mablung goes with me. I need you to stay in the city." 

Beregond opened and closed his mouth several times, quite obviously searching for a suitable argument in reply. There was none to be found, however, and he saw that Faramir was resolved in his decision. There would be no swaying the Steward. Finally, Beregond swallowed his objection and bowed his head in acknowledgement. 

"Good, then," said Faramir, "if you both would find Master Mablung and inform him, then? I shall be in the Houses of Healing." 

"Aye, my lord," the two brothers replied. Faramir then retreated into the growing throng of the guard on his way to the upper levels of the citadel. Beregond sighed heavily as they watched him go. 

"I do not like this, brother," he said, "there is something more than passing strange about all of this." 

"It is nothing more than Orcs," said Iorlas, "we already routed a group of them easily." 

"Too easily, perhaps." 

"You worry overmuch, brother," said Iorlas, shaking his head. 

"And why should I not?" Beregond said. "I am to see my little brother and my lord ride to battle without me." 

"It is only to a possible battle. Besides, do you doubt the skill of either of us? Of the men riding with us?" 

"Nay, but-" 

"Then, act not as though you do." Iorlas' tone had suddenly turned strangely sharp and Beregond nearly took an uncertain step back from his brother upon hearing it. So rarely did Iorlas speak thus that Beregond was wholly unprepared for it. Iorlas, too, seemed surprised by it. He shook his head and sighed before speaking again with a softer note. "I may be sixteen seasons your junior, brother, but I am no longer a babe to be coddled. Nor have I been for some time." 

"Aye, you never let me forget it. But that is beside the point in any case." 

"Then, what _is_ the point, Beregond?" 

"I know not, Iorlas. It is simply an old warrior's instinct. There is something about all this that is troubling beyond a mere incursion of Orcs. My thought is pulled north and east these days. Minas Morgul still stands; the King's order concerning it has not yet been carried out." 

"Aye, for a lack of man power. Gondor cannot both raise a city and... raze one at the same time. The founding of Minas Estel was higher priority than the final scouring of Minas Morgul." 

"Yes, yes, this I know. But mark me, brother; evil abides there still. But, whether it takes hard form or remains yet a miasma, I cannot say."

* * *

The room Léowine had been placed in was like any other in the Ithilien Houses of Healing; small and utilitarian. The Rohirrim had been laid on a small cot and covered with a wool blanket. Nearby was a small table with a wash basin and a tray of supplies the healers had used to wash and bandage his wound. The water in the basin was clear, but red of no pale hue. Léowine himself slumbered in fever, his face still as stone and nearly as grey. 

A small chair with the Matron of the Houses upon it was the only other thing in the room when Faramir came. He entered as silently as he could in his armor, somewhat helped by the white leather tunic embroidered with the Tree and Seven Stars of Gondor in silver. As he set his helm upon the table and leaned his sword against the wall, he was brought up short by the smell of blood that hung in the air. Although he had smelled his share of it during the War of the Ring, it still made the Prince's stomach turn slightly. He did not flinch, however, and joined Ioreth's side, looking upon the stricken rider with concern. 

"How fares he?" he asked the Matron. 

"Fevered, my lord," Ioreth replied solemnly, "and he has lost no small amount of blood. But, his men brought him to me care swiftly. Master Léowine shall be bedridden for a few days, but he shall recover." 

Faramir nodded his understanding. "He shall dislike that news. I trust you will keep him here with your usual zeal?" 

"No less, of course. He shall remain in this room if even I must fetch Elven hithlain from Lothlorien itself." 

Faramir nodded and came closer to Léowine's side. He put a hand to the rider's fevered brow. "_Garo post, herdir roch_," he said, "_ú-gosto úanath vi hin raim_."(2) After a moment of contemplative silence, he turned back to Ioreth, prepared to give her instructions to be ready for other wounded who may return from their ride. However, he was halted by the sound of hurried footsteps in the hall. 

"Matron Ioreth!" Bergil's voice floated into the room. He repeated the exclamation and a moment later came skidding around the corner and into the doorway. He was out of breath and gasped for a moment before saying anything. "It's Lady Éowyn! She says the baby is coming!" 

Ioreth shot to her feet and set aside the book she had been reading. "By the Valar!" she cried. "The child comes two weeks early, by my reckoning!" 

Faramir was out the door nearly before Ioreth had come to her feet, hastening in the direction that Bergil had come before he remembered that he hadn't asked where Éowyn was. He forced himself calm long enough to realize he could follow the growing flurry of activity and in that way he found Éowyn already in one of the rooms in the Houses of Healing, being attended by several of Ioreth's nurses. As Faramir entered, they paused and offered him abbreviated bows. The Prince paid them no heed and went immediately to Éowyn's side. 

"You come late," she said to him as he took her hand and sat in the chair near her bed. She breathed deeply and sweat had already started on her brow. "I always imagined the child would decide to come when we were already together." 

"Nay," Faramir said around a gentle kiss to her hand, "Madame Ioreth says the child comes early." 

"You will have to forgive the babe," said Éowyn, " for it knows naught of time as yet." She then allowed her face to fall serious. In Faramir's eyes, she could see the spark of fear that had suddenly come to him. She reached out and put a comforting hand on his cheek. "Fear not, husband-mine; children come into this world every day." 

"And the fathers fear for the mothers every day." He gave a heavy sigh, sadness deepening in his eyes. "Would that this had had better timing. Éowyn..." 

"You dress for battle," she said. 

"There are Orcs near Minas Morgul. They must be routed if-" He was silenced by Éowyn's hand covering his mouth. 

"Speak not of it," she said, "do what you must." 

"I should be here with you." 

"Ioreth would send you from the room anyway. This is one thing that men cannot typically stand. Go. Attend to our people. I shall attend to our child." 

"Ai, Éowyn," Faramir breathed, "my beloved White Lady. Please remain strong." 

"Ever, my love," she replied, "and you. Return in triumph and good health. But, the latter is the more important to me. The child will need his father." 

"His? You speak as if you know it will be a boy." 

"It is finally dawning on me, beloved; a mother knows these things." 

"Now, now, who ever let the Lord into this room?" Ioreth groused as she entered. "I'll not have him losing his head over all of this, like all men do. Out with you, Faramir." 

Both Faramir and Éowyn looked at Ioreth with a measure of incredulity, but the Matron was unswayed. 

"Yes, yes, you heard me, right enough." She waved a finger at Faramir, then took hold of his arm and led him toward the door. "I remember when you had your own mother in this state and if you have any of the disposition of your father in the matter, I'll not have you in here while it happens. This is no place for a man. Commoner I may be, but I have the authority in this as one who's handled it more times than I can remember. So, out with you." 

At the last moment, Faramir took hold of the doorframe and stopped Ioreth's forced escort from the room. "Éowyn," he said, "may our child have half of your bravery for with that alone, he will be the strongest man in Gondor." 

"And the other half he will gain from you." 

The two locked eyes for a moment and Ioreth paused, letting their gazes speak to each other for a time. Finally, she decided that it was time to go back to work and she pushed Faramir through the door with one final push. "Enough of that. Out with you, already." And she closed the door an instant later. 

Faramir stood in the hallway, staring at the closed door stupidly for nearly a minute. He did not even react when he heard Beregond's footsteps approaching. 

"She threw me out," Faramir stated in amazement. 

"That woman has no scruples," said the captain, "she did the same to me when Bergil was born. I believe she would throw Manwë himself from the room if she were the midwife to Varda." 

"I am going to be a father." 

"Oh, is that all?" Beregond put a hand on Faramir's shoulder and turned him from the door. "Come along, my lord. She may lack subtlety, but Ioreth is right. You do not want to be within earshot of the birthing." 

The Prince sighed as they walked down the hall, away from Éowyn's room. "And yet, I must ride with the company, even with this." 

"My lord, you still plan to ride with Iorlas?" Beregond asked in confusion. 

"There is naught for me to do here and much to be done elsewhere." 

"But with the Lady... My lord, I rather assumed you would send me in your stead. I can ride with Iorlas just as well and the men here will follow your order even better than mine." 

"I must see to this myself, Beregond. If Ithilien is under siege, I must know." 

"I can recognize preparations of a siege as well as any man." 

"None the less, I wish to see for myself. I will ride with the men." 

"Faramir, there is no need for you to put yourself in such danger!" 

The Steward stopped dead in the halls and whirled on Beregond, his eyes hard and his voice slightly louder and fathoms sterner. "You will mind yourself, Captain! It is not for you to question my command or my order. My decision stands. I will lead the sortie and you will lead the men in Minas Estel. Am I clear, Captain?" 

Once again, Beregond found himself flabbergasted. He wavered for a moment between acknowledgement and an apology before dropping into a bow. "Yes, my lord. I understand and I obey." 

Faramir seemed satisfied by this and turned to continue down the hall without Beregond. However, after only a few steps, he turned back and found that the captain had not moved. Beregond's face was one of utter confusion and more than a little hurt. With that, the sudden spark of anger that had lit itself in Faramir's heart was extinguished and the normal gentleness that resided within him returned. He sighed heavily. 

"Beregond," he said. Slowly, the captain looked up again. "I do count you my friend." The captain gave no response other than a tight, uncomfortable nod, so Faramir pushed onward. "I hold your loyalty more valuable than the White Rod or the Winged Crown itself. But there are things that... I cannot forget what..._ neither_ of us can ever forget what has been placed before us." Beregond nodded tightly again, but still seemed not to trust himself to say anything. In the next few silent moments, a debate both began and ended in Faramir's mind and he came to another decision. "When this task is done," he said, "when... there is more time, there is something I wish to discuss with you... as a friend?" 

Finally, Beregond met Faramir's gaze. He gave a grim smile and nodded. "As you wish it, my lord." The two of them clasped arms, then, and both knew the damage had been repaired. "_Lacho galad, drego d_." 

"_Aurë entuluva_!" Said Faramir.(3)

* * *

The host of the White Company rode forth from Minas Estel in the afternoon sun. The Lord Faramir was at the head of the riders with Iorlas to his right and the Prince Legolas on his left. With them also rode Mablung, Hadoriel, and Valithar. The company shone white in the sun, at one-hundred strong, and the unadorned flag of the Steward went with them. 

From the tower on the end of the north keel of the citadel, Beregond watched them ride with his son at his side. His face was proud, but not undisturbed and it seemed for all the world as though he was determined to keep his gaze north until the company returned to the safety of the city gates. 

Faramir was arrayed in armor of gleaming silver. The high crown of his helm was set with vines of gold and over his lamellar was a tunic of white leather with the Tree and Seven Stars in silver. He disliked the clunky armor as it conflicted with his instinct as a Ranger. It was heavy and made a great deal of noise when he moved. But he recognized the need for it in this case. 

Iorlas led them to the place where the Ithilrechyn had been attacked that morning and by the time they arrived, the Sun was beginning to sink in the west. The horses were once again beginning to grow skittish and it was made all the worse by the lengthening of the shadows around them. The light seemed deadened somehow as if it shown through some veil that hung heavy in the air. 

It was no help that the remains of the morning's slain Orcs were still rotting on the plains when they arrived. The sight was made all the worse by the fact that some creature seemed to have been at the corpses, tearing open their ragged armor and feeding on their decaying flesh. 

"What creature could have done this?" Hadoriel asked of Legolas as they and Valithar tried to guess the signs. "To rend metal in favor of dead flesh." 

"Some claw did this," Valithar said simply, running a hand along one of the rent edges of the Orc's armor. 

"Yes, but the tearing of the flesh was done with teeth," said Legolas, "some creature opened the armor as a child might tear paper from a sweet and then feasted." 

"Certainly, it was no Orc that did this, then," said Hadoriel, "but what creature would have the cunning for this? It is a puzzle indeed." 

"The Orcs came at us from the east," Iorlas told Faramir, gesturing to the stones that had been the Orcs' hiding place. "Likely, we surprised them as much as they surprised us." 

"Yes, but what sent them out of Mordor in the first place?" Faramir mused, his eyes skimming over the morning's battlefield. "We must track their movement backward. See that the area east of the stones remains undisturbed by the men for now, Iorlas. Mablung, come with me. This will take a Ranger's touch." 

"I shall come as well," said Legolas, "and Hadoriel. Perhaps four pairs of eyes will see the signs better than two." 

"And you, Master Valithar?" Iorlas asked. 

"If Valithar comes but three strides beyond the stones, we shall be journeying in circles for hours," said Hadoriel. 

"And if Hadoriel were left to the actual shooting of the prey we used to hunt, we two, she and I, would have starved some time before the fall of Númenor," Valithar rejoined. "Nay, I shall remain with the soldiers. My skill is in the fighting." 

Faramir then led the way to the space beyond the stones. The four rangers, both Man and Elf, left their horses behind them in the care of the other soldiers. They searched the area east of the stones for some time and it was Mablung who found the first sign; a myriad of tracks that led from a high knoll that the road went over. 

"The Orcs must have espied the Moon Riders from there," said Mablung. 

Legolas nodded his assent. "And came here to set the ambush before they lost the advantageous ground." 

"But there can be no more than twenty dead upon the field," said Hadoriel, "and I see no sign of other Orcs. What madness would make them attack a force three times larger than their own?" 

Faramir pondered the tracks for a moment, running a hand along the heel of one of the muddy footprints. It was cut deep into the moist spring grasses and Faramir surmised that it mast have been from a stride taken in haste. "Desperation," he said at last, rising and pausing to gaze down the nearby path that led eastward. After some time, he turned back toward the rest of the company and began rapidly striding back. "How right Iorlas was." 

"My lord?" Mablung asked as he and the two Elves followed. 

"The Orcs patrolled," Faramir stated, "and even they would only make such an attack as this out of desperation. And yet, what would they be so desperate to keep watch over as all this?" 

"A camp?" Hadoriel offered. 

"Nay, a camp could be moved if its location were found," said Legolas, "a fortification." 

"But there is only one place east of here and yet still within Ithilien where Orcs could effectively entrench themselves," said Mablung. 

"They wished to keep their presence secret for now and so the Orcs tried to chase the Ithilrechyn away and distract us," said Faramir, "the Orcs rode from Minas Morgul."

* * *

The White Company took to the east road and journeyed toward Minas Morgul for some hours. Their horses grew ever more wary as they went and a few riders were forced to dismount and travel by foot, leading their despondent destriers along the road. 

Twilight began to set in as they crested the last hill before the City of Sorcery. Minas Morgul stood nestled amongst the roots of the Ephel Dúath, the muted last rays of the sun silently kissing the very tip of its tallest tower. The rest of the city was doused in dismal greys, seeming to retreat into itself to avoid even the faintest of light. The very walls of the city themselves seemed to crowd one another, competing for the numerous corners of darkness. Still present was the city's ancient heritage as the dwelling place of Isildur. But that had long-since been snuffed out by evil carapaces and fortifications rising from the towers in dark, ragged, terrible spikes. A chill wound its way up Faramir's spine as he looked upon it. 

Standing between the White Company and Minas Morgul, in the plains just outside the city's walls and before the dark bridge that led over the river from the Morgul Vale, a tattered camp had formed. It was chaotic and disorganized and yet it stopped a decided distance from the city, as though a second wall had been placed there. And yet for all the movement in that camp, there seemed to be none within the city itself. 

"Well, it would seem you were correct, Hadoriel," Faramir heard Legolas say from somewhere behind him, "the Orcs have a camp after all." 

"But why are they not within the city?" she asked in reply. 

The activity in the camp suddenly increased. From their vantage point, Faramir could see several Orcs and Uruk-hai that had been on guard about the perimeter now rushing about. A moment later, a foul note issued from a horn and the whole camp was roused in alarm. 

"We have not the time to guess this puzzle, now," said Faramir, turning back to the rest of the company, "we must attack before they can organize. Mablung, take your men down the left. Iorlas, take the Ithilrechyn on an attack from the right. The rest shall follow the Steward's Banner down the center. Draw swords, men! And ride now for Ithilien and Gondor!" The Steward drew his sword and took up position at the front of the company. He thrust it into the air, shouting "flame light!" 

"Flee night!" came the response from the White Company. Twice more Faramir shouted the call and twice more he was answered. 

Horns blew behind him as Faramir called the charge and the White Company rode down the hill, bursting upon the still-forming Orckish line. Uruk-hai were at the fore and slashed at the riders as they came, but were hewed down by the thundering hooves of the White Company's horses. 

Well behind the first line, Faramir spied a rough catapult being hastily readied by panicked Orcs. He made for it, sword raised high and his brothers in arms with him. The fight for the weapon was brief and soon fire had been produced by one of Faramir's riders. The old, dry timbers of the siege machine took to flame readily, all its stones still in a pile next to it.  
But the Orcs and Uruk-hai were not to be so easily dismayed by the battle. One of the Uruk-hai called a rally to him with a foul cry. Near fifty Orcs gathered to him, some of them chased toward the center of the battle by Mablung's Rangers and Iorlas's Moon Riders. Legolas and Valithar, too, rained arrows down upon them as they retreated into a small knot. A hundred or so of the White Company surrounded the Orcs, the rest still engaged in small peripheral battles. It looked as though the job was nearly finished when Faramir heard the Uruk-hai leader raise his voice above the din of hooves and clashing swords. 

"Parley!" the beast called. "Parley!" 

With uncertainty, both sides ceased their battle. The Orcs retreated impossibly further into their knot and the White Company backed off a few paces until there was a decided moat of brown grass between the two sides. For several moments, Man and Orc stared each other down as if daring the other to make the first move. 

"Speak quickly, Orc, if you must," Faramir insisted at last, "we would know why you have entered Ithilien and attacked us." 

"Ithilien no longer exists!" said the Uruk-hai. "These lands were conquered for Mordor in the war! They are ours!" He came now to the fore of the group, standing toe to toe with Faramir. He was small for an Uruk-hai and had three angry slashes across his face. 

"Your master was defeated," said Faramir, "and these lands returned to Gondor. Surely you called parley for some other reason than this." 

The Uruk-hai flicked his eyes to the flag-bearer on Faramir's right, then leveled his gaze back at the Prince with a disturbingly keen eye. "You are the Steward of Gondor." 

"I am Faramir Denethorion," he answered, "and I would know your name, Uruk." 

"Luglash," the Uruk-hai bit out, flicking his eyes strangely over Faramir's shoulder, to the western horizon. He said no more and stood in silence. 

"Tell me, then," said Faramir, "why have you called parley?" 

Luglash gave no answer, giving a low growl instead. His gaze flicked again to the western horizon. 

Faramir's unease began to grow. Luglash was obviously not the parleying type. This was a move that he had not planned to make. Again, Faramir got an impression of desperation. The signs were in front of him. He simply could not read them. He and Luglash stared each other down across the gulf of grass that separated the two armies in silence. They studied everything about each other for several long moments. 

And suddenly, Faramir realized with strange clarity that the slashes across the Uruk-hai's face could not have been more than a week old. He had seen its like only hours before. 

A moment later, there came a great howl from within the walls of Minas Morgul, reaching deep into the hearts of the White Company. The men around Faramir faltered and the horses stamped their feet and whinnied in barely suppressed panic. All else was silent until the howl came again. 

"What trickery is this?" Faramir mused aloud, reigning his horse to calm. 

Luglash began a low, guttural laugh and directed a twisted smile at Faramir. "Fool of a man!" he shouted. "Parley! Ha! You should not have given us this time!" He raised his jagged sword above his head and cried aloud in a voice somewhere between a howl and a scream. With that signal, the rest of the Orcs abandoned their watch on the perimeter of their knot and made a charge for the White Company surrounding them. 

As the battle began anew, the Men saw rising from Minas Morgul two great shapes, black against the grey of the twilight sky; winged creatures with eyes of cold steel and teeth long as knives. Upon their backs an Orc sat, pulling on ragged reigns as the creatures thrashed back and forth in disobedience. 

The call of an Orc horn rose from the battle and one of the two mounted Orcs answered. With cracks of whips, the creatures rose from their terrible perches on the walls of the city and flew toward the battle, a foul stench riding the wind from their wings. The creatures howled once again and wheeled overhead, dipping with their great claws extended. 

With the new threat, it did not take long for the battle to lose its organization. Men and Orc alike scattered to avoid the flying menaces. Faramir found himself battling against a small group of Orcs along side Mablung and Iorlas. He parried a charge from one Orc, sidestepping and lifting his own weapon so that it found the Orc's chest. He wrenched it free and spun, striking at another, nearly losing his fingers as the Orc parried. 

Legolas, meanwhile, led an assault upon the flying creatures. Hadoriel and two of Mablung's rangers covered Legolas and Valithar against the onslaught of the Orcs as they released arrow after arrow at one of the beasts. Finally, the creature had had enough. Unheeding of the commands of its rider, it descended and grasped the two Men in its outstretched claws. The three Elves narrowly escaped its grasp and were knocked to the ground. Behind, they could hear the agony of the creature's two captives, silenced only the sounds of crunching bone but a few moments later. As they came to their feet and turned, they found the creature crouching upon the grass, the twisted remains of its victims still beneath its feet. It had tossed its rider and now howled at the Elves in anger. 

"Fell worm!" Legolas shouted, drawing back an arrow. "Go back to the dark pit from whence you slithered!" He let his arrow fly and it found flesh along the beast's wing. It wailed again, this time in pain as well as in anger. It struck out in response, thrashing its head forward toward the Elves and snapping its jaws. 

Hadoriel's spear flashed and she rent a wound in the flesh of its neck. With a flick of its tail, the beast sent her reeling aside. Valithar let loose an arrow, then, and it found the beast's hind leg. The beast stumbled, sprawling on the ground and both archers put another arrow into it. Hadoriel had gotten to her feet then and avoiding the thrashes of the beast, came to its neck. She halted it by stabbing her spear into its jaw. As the beast began to shake loose, Hadoriel pulled her spear back and ran its side blade across the worm's throat. 

The monster wailed and fell to the ground, still thrashing, but weakly. Legolas and Valithar both took aim and their arrows each found the tender spots of the beast's eyes. Soon, the worm was still and silent. 

Seeing the demise of his mount, the Orc that had been riding the beast put a horn to his mouth and sounded a call. 

Although he was still locked in a bitter contest with Faramir, Luglash heard the horn call. The swords of the Steward and the Uruk-hai locked in a test of strength and Luglash took the moment it afforded him to scream a terrible call to the sky where the other fell worm flew. Abandoning the chivalry of the sword, for it had no place in a battle with Orcs, Faramir launched a kick at Luglash's feet. The Uruk-hai stumbled backward, leering at Faramir and still brandishing his sword. A moment later, Faramir found that Mablung and Iorlas had rejoined his side, guarding his back from two Orcs. 

Suddenly the worm descended from the sky and Faramir found Mablung atop him, pushing him to the ground. In horror, Faramir watched the beast pluck Iorlas from the ground, piercing the Moon Rider's body with its claws. Iorlas barely had time to cry out before the sickening snap of bone heralded the crushing of his ribs. The worm dropped Iorlas a moment later and the Ithilrochon rolled to a stop along the ground and came to a halt in a bloody and unceremonious heap. The beast lighted on the ground a moment later, unheeding of the commands of its rider, and moved to rend Iorlas' still form with its salivating jaws. 

"Mardil!" Faramir cried and, brandishing his sword, he charged the beast. 

"Gondor!" Mablung bellowed, hot on his heels. 

The Steward all but skidded to a halt on the grass, his sword finding the flesh of the worm's flank. It reared and with a mighty beat of its wings took to the sky, crying out. It circled around, first west, then east, then it made for lands to the north and east. As it flew over him, Luglash brandished a whip and lashed it around the worm's leg. As he was pulled into the sky, he yelled in his own foul tongue, then changed to Westron. 

"This is but the beginning, Steward!" he shouted. "Let it be known in the kingdoms of Men; these lands belong to King Urlak and the Uruk-hai of Mordor!" 

As Luglash retreated, so did the rest of his army. The Orcs who were not routed utterly by sword and arrow ran across the darkening grasslands, following the flying form of their captain and his beast. 

For his part, Faramir went immediately to the fallen Iorlas. But he was grieved when he found no sign of life left in the Rider's eyes. "Be at peace, son of Gondor," he said, "fly beyond the circles of the world and battle no more." With a heavy sigh and a heavy heart, he stood again and once more found Mablung at his side. "By the Valar, Mablung," he said sadly, "whatever shall I say to Beregond?" 

Mablung shook his head in silence. "I never did envy you such duty, my lord," he said with quavering voice. After a moment, the Ranger tore his eyes away from his fallen friend and straightened to attention. "Your orders, Captain?" 

Faramir, too, collected himself. Sheathing his sword, he turned to Mablung. "Give aid to the wounded," he ordered, "and gather the dead. Our own we shall bring home to Minas Estel. The Orcs will receive no honor for this atrocious attack. Pile them and burn them. As soon as all are ready, we will ride for home." 

As all this was done, Faramir wandered about his company, pausing only when he heard a brief lament near a small fire. 

_We came as the Sun was setting_  
_From Minas Estel we rode_  
_Six and one-hundred we numbered_  
_And less than eighty ride home._  
_The Sun shall rise red in the morning_  
_And this night the stars shall weep_  
_For mournful is sword in the breaking_  
_But its shards we always shall keep._  
_Our brothers lie dead on the grassland_  
_Lives given for Ithilien fair_  
_And grieving we sit by this fire_  
_Alone singing songs to the air._  
_The shadow seems not yet ended_  
_Yet our lands shall be defended._

* * *

Their ride home was slow, but unhindered by any enemy. Some were the walking wounded, others rode their horses as they were led, still more were carried in the saddle by others. The heaviest burdens were the fallen, each placed upon a horse and wrapped in swaddles of coarse burlap, their broken swords and splintered shields tied with them. They were the first to die in the service of the White Company. 

Faramir himself led the horse that carried the corpse of Iorlas. In the first hours of the journey, his heart nearly failed him and he all but wept as he went. He contented himself with a mournful silence instead, using voice only when his role as captain called for it. The company came to Minas Estel as the first rays of the next morning's sun were graying the skies above. The Steward's heart nearly failed him again when he saw Beregond from afar, watching at the gate of the outermost wall. 

By the time the White Company passed through the gates, Beregond was already waiting. He approached Faramir quickly, urgency in his gait. 

"The company was slow to return, my lord," he said, "what news?" It was then the captain saw the hilt-shard of his brother's sword tied to the wrapped body upon Faramir's horse. Somehow, the captain seemed to grow small and the silence from his lord swelled to a crushing monolith. 

"There was battle," Faramir said simply and at last. And he placed the reins in Beregond's hand. 

"Please say not that my brother has fallen," said Beregond. 

To this Faramir had no answer and so he moved on, leaving Beregond to his grief and recommencing the administration of the battered White Company.

* * *

The honored dead of Ithilien, from that day on, were buried in the ruins of the old city to the south of Minas Estel upon Emyn Arnen. Caras Faerath it was called, the City of Spirits, and no living man dwelt within its bounds and it was made a monument. Iorlas was the first to be laid there and Beregond chose as his grave a space beneath a tree flowering with buds of white. 

As soon as the urgent matters of his company had been resolved and Faramir was certain all else could wait some hours, he made his way to the Houses of Healing and there found Éowyn. She was still abed at the bidding of Ioreth and the healers, but she was hale and well. In her arms was a small bundle of white linen. When the Steward entered, Éowyn looked up at him and smiled. Faramir crossed the room almost shyly and his lady suppressed a giggle. 

"Come, Faramir," she said to him gently, "come and meet your son." 

As he sat upon the edge of the bed, Éowyn handed the babe to him. The child took after his father in almost all aspects of face, but he had his mother's eyes. Soft curls of dark hair ringed his head. He shifted slightly and a small hand worked its way out of the linen and grasped at the air. Faramir stared at the child so long and with such silence that he almost didn't notice that Éowyn had placed her hand upon his shoulder. 

"Will you say nothing and stare at him until he grows to manhood?" she asked. 

"Would that I could!" Faramir replied. "For he is as much a wonder as to me as the enduring stars! In him, I see how I will continue, and the house of Húrin." He handed the babe back to Éowyn, then leaned over and kissed her upon the brow. "You have given me a great gift, my lady. I have had reason to despair of the darkness this day and now I have reason to be joyful as well." 

"He is a gift to us both," said Éowyn, "but beyond all that he is your heir, the heir to the Stewardship of Gondor. He is for you to name." 

Faramir thought for a long moment, then with a smile reached over to lay his hand upon his son's hair, gently feeling it with his fingertips for a moment. 

"I greet you my son, my enduring star," he said, "my Elboron."

* * *

As always, none of this is mine, just borrowing it. It all belongs to the estate of JRR Tolkien, the master and professor. 

Reviews appreciated. Always nice to hear peoples' viewpoints. Makes my writing better. While we're on that note, thanks to StargazerNataku for letting me bounce ideas off her from time to time. 

A moment to rant... I really dislike a new FFN policy of not recognizing indentations on paragraphs. Forcing people to have extra lines of space between paragraphs forces writers to make their stories look horrendously unprofessional and limits the author's ability to express themselves through format. It is especially problematic for those of us who use extra lines between paragraphs to denote a change in scene and/or time, since additional extra lines are _also_ deleted by FFN. Read and review this chapter here if you wish, but head over to my website to read it as it was meant to be read. And to the FFN managers, shame on you for the lazy policy. 

Since last chapter, I've discovered a new obsession with Tolkien's Elvish languages, most especially Sindarin. The phrases I included in this chapter are my newbie attempts at the real thing (none of this Grelvish stuff). If anyone knows the mechanics and grammar of Sindarin better than I do, I invite correction. In the meantime, here's some translations, some of which I've lifted from the books and others I've rendered myself: 

(1) Sindarin: "It is at last." Legolas makes a greeting. Followed by Faramir's line also in Sindarin: "Well met." Also a greeting.  
(2) Sindarin: "Have rest, horse master. Fear not monsters within these walls."  
(3) Beregond's line in Sindarin: "Flame light, flee night." Followed by Faramir's line in Quenya: "Day shall come again." 

And here's a few notes on names: 

Menelovrel: Iorlas' horse, Sindarin meaning "abundant sky."  
Hadoriel: one of Legolas' captains, Sindarin meaning "garlanded maiden who throws spears and knives."  
Aradól: the Sindarin name of one of Legolas' captains, meaning "high hill." Since Valithar is not a name that would be possible in Sindarin, I decided to call this his ancient Nandorin name and give him a separate name in Sindarin.  
Aldegil: a soldier of the gate guard, Sindarin meaning "slays not the star."  
Ithilrochon: Sindarin meaning "moon rider." Plural is Ithilirechyn or Ithilrochonath depending on case and context.  
Denethorion: Sindarin naming convention meaning "son of Denethor." An epithet for Faramir, _not_ a last name.  
Caras Faerath: Sindarin meaning "city of the spirits."  
Elboron: research on this name has turned up the Sindarin verb "brona" meaning "to last, to survive." Closest meaning seems to be "enduring star." 

As a last note to those violently opposed to Mary-Sues, I'd like to make a preemptive apology if either of the two new Elf characters came off as self-insert-ish. Valithar and Hadoriel were characters adapted from characters in a D&D gaming group I participate in; in fact, Hadoriel is my character in that group so I'm particularly concerned about her seeming like a Mary-Sue. I gave them a moment of niftiness with Legolas in this chapter, but rest assured it is not my intent to have them start saving the day all the time. They are background characters only and as of now it's not my intent to have them show up in more than a few instances. 

And, let's see, teaser for next chapter... well, we'll get to see a little more of what's happening in Mordor. 

Hope you enjoyed! 

_Bado na sídh_! 

Berz.


	3. The Battle of Minas Morgul

The Chronicles of Ithilien  
By Berzerkerprime

Chapter Three: The Battle of Minas Morgul

There was a tradition in Gondor that dated back to the times of the Third Age before the War of the Ring; before the wilder places of the land had grown too dangerous and overrun with the minions of the Enemy. At its heart were all the young men who were aspiring to be Rangers and who would be turning eighteen within the next year. Each of them was awoken early one morning, before the sun, and told by their teachers that they had an hour to prepare. After that, they were gathered in an open area where they could see the sun rise.

The very oldest of old soldiers, those who had been but fledgling lads at the same time as Denethor, remembered it. The original gathering place was in the old city upon Emyn Arnen. Now, the gathering took place in the Citadel of Minas Estel for the first time in nearly two generations; a full seven years following the crowning of King Elessar. Some dozen or so youths had gathered on the morning of the mid year, all dressed in the greens and browns of the Ithilien Rangers under Mablung's command and all blearily rubbing their eyes in confusion.

Strangely enough, it had not been Mablung who had greeted them. Rather, it was Captain Beregond who addressed the assembly, a silent Prince Faramir looking on in the space behind him. It was then that they were told that their task was but a simple one; prove they had learned their skill.

The Ranger-cadets had one day, from one sunrise to the next, to find Mablung somewhere in the woods of Ithilien, take from him a message, and deliver it to the hands of either Beregond or Faramir in Minas Estel.

And with that explanation and the rising of the sun, Beregond had bid them begin. The boys were momentarily confused and cast about, speaking quickly to each other in an effort to organize. But it soon became clear to all of them that it was a race.

And thus it was that Bergil, son of Beregond, now found himself alone in the woods of Ithilien sometime after moonrise on mid-year's night, a small, battered scroll tucked inside his gambeson and a green strip of cloth tied around his upper arm. When he had found Mablung, the commander had informed him that he would be penalized time for each instance he was spotted by other Rangers in the area on his way back. Evidently, his mission was to return to the Citadel by way of both stealth and speed.

Bergil had sprouted in recent years and now stood only a head shorter than his father. His hair had darkened somewhat and he chose to wear it long, pulled back into a tail with a leather thong. His training as a Ranger had begun to take root and he had the thin, fit build of a woodland athlete, archer's muscles beginning to form in his shoulders. At the age of fourteen, he had traded in his white tabard for a gambeson of brown leather and his ankle slippers for a pair of high boots. He carried a small bow and a modest quiver of arrows on his back, poking through a half cloak of a dull green hue. Still at his side was the short sword he had had as a White Company squire, a token of his intent to one day earn a rank in the Guard of the Lord Faramir.

At the moment, he was perched upon a tree branch in an effort to see farther into the woods and check that his way was clear. He was just about to climb down and push onward when he heard a peculiar snap of a twig not far off. Adjusting his stance so that he was more covered by the leaves of the tree, he looked to it. Not far away, climbing another tree, was one of his fellow-cadets. They were in a dead heat for the return to Minas Estel. Bergil stood as still as he could and waited until the other cadet climbed down and started off again. He passed almost directly under Bergil as he went and Bergil jumped down from his branch directly into his path.

"Well met, Galborn," he greeted in a hushed tone.

"Bergil!" the other exclaimed. "By the Valar, don't _do_ that! You startled me half out of Eä!"

Bergil gave Galborn a poke in the chest. "You should have seen me. Master Mablung would be quite disappointed, I'd say."

"What about you?" Galborn shot back. "You help an adversary."

"Who said anything about helping you?"

"Ah, so now t'is out! You succumb to bravado, then?"

"What say we make a proper race of it, eh? Loser buys the winner a pint?"

Galborn pondered for a moment. "It is agreed," he said, toeing a line in the dirt next to them. Wordlessly, the two youths put their right foots upon the line and stood at the ready.

"By the way," said Bergil absently, "we wait to determine a winner until the time penalties have been added in."

"What?" Galborn asked in alarm.

"Go!" Bergil said at the same moment. An instant later and Galborn was left to stare at Bergil's back. He followed quickly, though, and gave Bergil no quarter.

The tree line just north of Emyn Arnen was not far off and for a time, the two boys both ran straight toward it. However, just short of it, Bergil dropped back and allowed Galborn to pass. Thus it was Galborn who came out of the woods first and began his sprint across the grasslands north of Minas Estel.

Bergil, meanwhile, remained in the trees. Rather than approaching the city head-on, he came at it from the east and was unhindered by nearly so many prying eyes as his compatriot. Slowly, he crept along the wall, remaining in the dark shadows of the grey morning twilight.

Galborn had been halted at the gate and was being questioned, nearly interrogated, by several of Damrod's gate guards. Silently, Bergil slipped past them as a shadow over water. But then, as he emerged from the portcullis, he ran out of darkness in which to hide.

"Hey! You there lad!" called the watch commander. "Halt and declare yourself!"

Bergil took off at a run and began the sprint up the main road of Minas Estel to the citadel. He allowed himself but a moment to glance back over his shoulder and saw there two of the gate guard in pursuit and Galborn a step behind them. He came to the first tunnel at the west of the first circle. The road continued through it, but he took the tunnel that came off it and went left, taking the stairs within two at a time, never breaking stride. When he emerged into the waxing daylight, he went eastward along the road of the second circle. Similar tunnels and similar stairs he took, east, west, east, west, and east again until he emerged from the Tunnel of the Stewards in the citadel. He sensed his pursuers still behind him, feet hitting the ground in a pattering flurry.

Beregond was there, waiting near the grand entryway to the Prince's House. As Bergil came to him, he wore an expression on his face that no small amount of perturbation but also no trace of surprise.

Bergil fumbled with the pocket in his gambeson and pulled from it his rolled and crumpled parchment. He laid it in Beregond's hand just as the gate guards caught up to him. Galborn was only seconds behind.

"Peace, peace," Beregond said, waving off the two gate guards, "they are two of Mablung's students. Return to your posts." As Damrod's men left, the captain returned his gaze to the two Ranger-cadets. "Bergil, you return seventh. Galborn, you are eighth. And so far none have entered the citadel with so much activity following behind. You shirked the gate guard, I take it?"

Bergil and Galborn did not immediately respond, both near doubled over and gasping for breath. Beregond waited patiently, but with a look of disapproval directed at the youths. Finally, it was Bergil who spoke up.

"Apologies, father," he said, "I'm afraid my plan to return to the citadel in secrecy went awry."

"Your plan?" Galborn asked, venom in his voice. "You used me as your tool to get past the gate guard?"

"It almost worked," said Bergil, "Galborn, you make an excellent decoy!"

"Decoy!" Galborn roared. "What base trickery!" And despite his weariness, Galborn moved to strike at Bergil with a fist. He was halted by Beregond's stronger arms. The captain placed himself between both youths.

"Enough!" he rumbled. "Galborn, you will strike not at your ally. And you, Bergil, shall treat an ally as such in the future. And you shall remember that you need not enter a friendly citadel in secrecy."

"Aye sir," Galborn said in dejection.

"Yes father," Bergil agreed in kind.

"Cadet, you are on duty and you shall address me as captain!"

"Aye captain!" Bergil replied, straightening to attention.

"Your mission is complete," Beregond stated, "go and take some rest. You will be assembled with the others, later."

* * *

Elboron could not fathom why his father was pacing. To and fro the Steward walked, always with looks of varying degrees of worry on his face. At times it seemed to the five-year-old as though Faramir longed for a larger room in which to move about as he seemed hindered by the walls.

"_Ada_," Elboron finally said, "how come you're worried? I thought you said the Eagles brought new babies to people."

Faramir stopped pacing and looked at his eldest son sitting on a long couch, his younger brother of two years curled up into a small ball next to him. In truth, Elboron and Eldamir had been so silent that Faramir had nearly forgotten they were there.

"Didn't the Eagles bring Eldamir to live with us?" Elboron pressed. "From the Valar?"

"Yes, yes of course they did," said Faramir, suddenly remembering the conversation he had had with the boy two years prior when Eldamir had been born. "And they brought you, too."

"But how come you can't be there?" Elboron asked. "Ioreth said you can't be there."

"Ioreth?" Faramir asked of him, raising a prompting eyebrow.

"I mean, _Madame_ Ioreth," Elboron corrected.

"Very good."

"But why did she send you away?"

"Because… it… is the custom," said Faramir, "only women may greet the Eagles when they bring a child."

"How come you aren't going to hug _nana_ any more?" Elboron asked next. "Don't you like each other any more?"

"'Not going to…' Elboron, what in Eä gave you that idea?"

"When_ nana_ started yelling before. I heard her say that you weren't going to touch her again. Is she mad at you? You should say your sorry if she's mad."

And with that, Faramir was completely and utterly flabbergasted. He could face whole councils of lords and speak to the King without a thought, but more and more often, he was done in by the keen observations of his own son. He had but one way out of this crucible.

"You are correct, of course," said the Steward to his son, "I'm certain your n_aneth_ was simply anxious over the Eagles' visit, but I shall apologize when I am allowed to see her. Worry not." He sat down on the couch and the boy crept in closer to lean on his shoulder.

"That's good, _ada_," Elboron said, "I don't want nana to be mad."

"Not do I. Your _naneth_ was quite the warrior years ago when the Shadow came out of Mordor."

"She killed a Nazgúl, didn't she!"

"Most certainly. But harder still, she stole the heart of a young lord who had suffered a great loss and did it before anyone could notice. It was so fast that the young lord had no hope of preventing it from happening."

"Is that you, _ada_?"

"Yes. And I do not think she would so lightly throw away such a prize, do you?"

Elboron shook his head, unsuccessfully stifling a yawn. He leaned his head into the crook of Faramir's arm, rubbing his eyes. Within a few silent moments, Elboron drifted off to sleep. Carefully, Faramir extricated himself from the boy's grasp and covered him with a nearby blanket of blue. For a long moment, Faramir looked at his two boys as they slept side by side, remembering the days when each of them had been born.

In Elboron, Faramir could see a growing glimmer of understanding. He was beginning to come to know his future roll in life as the heir of the Stewardship. Although he was yet a child, Faramir sense that Elboron would grow in his consciousness before other boys his age. Already, Faramir heard whispered that the boy was clearly his father's son.

Eldamir, meanwhile, took after Éowyn's people in face and temperament alike. He had his mother's golden hair and delighted in the sun and the wind when he was taken outside. The stamping hooves of horses made him squeal with joy. There was no mistaking who his mother was.

All of this Faramir took in for but a few moments before there was a gentle rapping at the room's door. Silently, Faramir crossed the room and answered it. Beregond was on the other side and Faramir slipped out into the hall where they could speak without waking the two boys. Gently, he closed the door behind him.

"My lord," Beregond greeted, "is there any word on the lady?"

"Not as yet," Faramir answered, "not since sundown. I do not understand; Eldamir did not take so long as this."

Beregond laughed. "Even in this, all children are different," he said, "or so I have been told by others. I have only the one instance to draw upon."

"The sun is up," Faramir observed, "did Bergil return in the allotted time?"

"With fanfare," Beregond answered, sourly, "he was chased through all seven circles of the city by two of Damrod's men and a classmate. Truly, I know not what is to be done about him! All things are contests to him; games! He takes nothing seriously and Mablung tells me that Bergil delights in frivolous pranks played upon his fellow cadets. I am at wit's end!"

Faramir thought again of his two young sons, sleeping in the room behind him. He was suddenly afflicted by visions of Elboron and Eldamir running rampant through the citadel with no adequate check. And then, he found himself hoping that his third child would turn out to be a girl; one, in fact, who took after her Gondorian blood rather than that of the Rohirrim.

"Well, at any rate," Beregond continued, "I'm sure he will come around in time. Or perhaps face a sound beating in a match with Mablung." The captain now produced several small scrolls that Faramir had not even noticed he had been carrying. He handed them to the Steward. "A messenger arrived from Minas Tirith. The usual reports of the King's council and whatnot, but I believe that one," he indicated the smallest, "is personal correspondence from Master Peregrin in the Shire."

As they were mainly informative, Faramir set the other scrolls aside and took up the letter from Pippin. It was closed with a blue string and sealed with green wax. Pressed into the seal was a leaf of five points. Faramir broke the seal and unrolled the parchment with a smile, glad to have received the letter. He took a few silent moments to read over the scrawling Westron. But as he did, his face fell and Beregond could see that he finished it somewhat haltingly. When he was done, he set it aside and went to the window at the end of the hall, facing west.

"My lord?" Beregond asked. "Ill news?"

"Perhaps," Faramir answered, "but, perhaps not. At any rate, it marks an end." He turned back to Beregond with a sigh. "Frodo sailed for the Undying Lands. He could not find healing in the Shire. Only now has Master Peregrine been able to bring himself to write of it."

Beregond's face twisted into a mixture of confusion and concern and he joined Faramir at the window. "The Periannath are mortal, are they not?"

"So I have been told," Faramir replied.

"Will he be allowed to pass into the West?"

"He sailed with Mithrandir, Master Elrond, and the Lady Galadriel. If any can obtain this grace for him, it is the bearers of the Three. His time will be short there, as a flickering candle burning at both ends. But what time remains to Frodo will be spent in the bliss of Valinor, I am certain. Alas! Alas for Frodo of the Nine Fingers! So grievous were his hurts."

They stood in silence for some time after that, watching the light spreading in the west and shining in the tones of dawn.

"Then, the power of the Rings is undone at last," Beregond said at length, "and the Istari have left us to our own devices. It seems to me as if some magic has left Middle-earth."

* * *

Faramir's vision shifted. The blue sky above the distant White Mountains darkened. Lightning flashed from above, striking the green fields between Minas Estel and the Andúin. Figures moved below, dark and sharp against what little light there was.

Beregond was there, as well. He stood alone to hinder the dark shapes, sword shining. Two spears of lightning struck at him, blue against the sky. Beregond was gone and the darkness advanced unhindered.

A voice seemed to speak in Faramir's ear and if he could have moved he would have turned to see the speaker.

_Beware the two who are sundered…_

* * *

And then, someone was shaking his shoulders.

"My lord!" Beregond cried. "My lord!"

Startled, Faramir grabbed Beregond's hands with a gasp. His vision cleared and he could see the captain's concerned face staring back at him. Faramir blinked several times and glanced about.

"My lord, are you well?" Beregond asked.

"Yes, yes," Faramir said, leaning against the window sill, half in a swoon. "I am fine, worry not."

"You did not say anything for some time. When I asked your thoughts, you did not respond."

Faramir drew himself up once again, yet still he felt somehow small. Evenly, he met Beregond's gaze. "It came again," he said, "this time in the waking."

"It has never done so?" Beregond asked.

"Nay. It has strengthened now. Beregond, my friend, you must have caution."

"Always, my friend. Yet, as we have agreed, I will look not for such disaster to befall. I will live as I always have; as a man doing his duty and fulfilling his honor."

"I would have it no other way," said Faramir, "but, perhaps, we should not discount magic in Middle-earth as yet."

* * *

Some hours after dawn, Faramir was called by the healer Ioreth to Éowyn's side. The Princess of Ithilien was exhausted, but the labor had gone exactly as had been expected. When Faramir arrived, it was to greet her and their youngest child. The babe, a girl of dark hair and the eyes of her kind great-uncle of Dol Amroth, was larger than her brothers had been, being a full week past the time the healers had expected her. The Steward spent as much time as he could spare in the company of both ladies that day, holding his beloved third child. Much of the basic administration of the city he left to Beregond in the meantime.

The building of Minas Estel was nearing its completion. The city was quickly becoming Ithilien's biggest center for trade, with nearly all of the outermost two circles given over to commerce and craftsmanship. The great master tower was all but complete, still awaiting the metal-shod capstone that was to be the gift of the Dwarves of the Glittering Caves. The Lord Gimli, himself, was to accompany its coming. Its setting upon the spire was to be the crowning ceremony of the city's establishment, the symbolic completion of building. As such, a week of celebration was being planned.

It was noon time but three days after the birth of the youngest member of the Prince's family – Fréodgyth she was called, named after the manner of her mother's people – when the watch of Minas Estel saw approaching from the north a small band of Dwarves marching under the banner of the House of Glóin; a field of black with anvil and hammer and a seven-pointed star of gold. Two traveled upon ponies at the lead and amid the rest was carried a heavy-leaden cart packed carefully with cloth and rope.

It did not go unnoticed that they traveled quickly but tiredly and that their numbers were too few for the expected party. And so, Damrod sent men out to meet them. Beregond met them when they entered the gates. Eight were their numbers and they were led by Gimli Mellonedhel. At his elbow was a Dwarf of black hair and beard carrying a great battle ax and a shield nearly equal his height.

It was then that Beregond learned that trouble had befallen the Dwarves on their journey. Eight were all that remained of the initial fifteen travelers and the Dwarves told of a menace from the skies falling upon them between Cair Andros and the Crossroads. Leaving business at the gate to Damrod, Beregond took Gimli and his black-haired companion to the citadel, sending a runner ahead. The Steward met them as they emerged from the tunnel

"Master Gimli," he greeted, "glad I am to see you well. I am told danger welcomed you to Ithilien."

"Aye, that it did," said Gimli, "as we traveled from our crossing at Cair Andros. Alas for the seven we have lost! Bravely they fought!"

"I have met no Dwarf that fights otherwise," said Faramir, "it must have been a horrific enemy to have felled so many of your company! Please, you must tell me everything."

They went together within the House of the Prince and sat around a great circular table in a room of many windows and white stone. Inlays of black lined the arches of the small basilica and the pillars that lined the side walls were topped with carvings in the shapes of leaves. All the seats at the table were set so that no one sat higher than the others, but the one nearest the wall had a high back and was inlaid with the star-leaf of Ithilien in Mithril. Just behind it and to the right was a stand of wrought iron holding the White Rod of the Steward. This seat Faramir took and Beregond sat to his right. Gimli and his companion took the two seats to the left, putting their arms aside near the door as they entered.

"My lord Gimli," said Beregond, "you'll have to forgive me, but I do not believe I have made the acquaintance of your companion."

Gimli gave a laugh, rumbling it out of his toes, it seemed. "Your captain worries about offending us!" he said to Faramir. "Do not be so cautious, Master Beregond. We Dwarves are not so easily put out as all that! Indeed, I would think that you have not met Ghan unless you have made a visit to Erebor or the Glittering Caves. Captain of the Hammer Dwarves is he and never have you met another so adept at defeating Orcs and others of the evil nature."

"You can call it a personal quest," said Ghan, "but, Gimli, forget not that I am also your third cousin. Never sundered in spirit are those of the line of Dúrin!"

"Alas, but it is of those of the evil nature that we must speak," said Faramir, "please, tell us of your journey."

"Of course," said Gimli, "this will concern us all in the end, I fear. We journeyed over the plains of Anórien and crossed the Andúin at your city of Cair Andros."

"I must say, it is much improved since the war," said Ghan, "we left in good spirits after a day of pleasantries."

"By which he means to say that the men of Cair Andros brew pleasant spirits," Gimli amended, "but it was a day south of the city that trouble befell us. A band of Uruk-hai fell upon us, numbering perhaps twenty. But we had the high ground and fought the downhill battle. We were making short work of them."

"By which he means to say that we worked them until they were short!" Ghan exclaimed, making a chopping motion horizontally through the air with one hand.

"Indeed!" Gimli agreed. "And then, the Uruk-hai did something most strange; I have never seen its like in the Orkish races. They actually sounded a retreat. One blew a foul horn and they all made eastward at a run. We thought it strange, but we celebrated victory as we watched them run. Fifteen Dwarves against twenty Uruk-hai! A glorious victory!"

"But, alas, we were premature," said Ghan.

"As he says," Gimli continued, "watching the Uruk-hai, none of us ever thought to look to the skies, so we did not see the black shapes wheeling overhead."

"Aye," Ghan agreed, "if I did not know better, I would have called them Dragons. But they were smaller and darker and there was no thought in their eyes but for destruction."

"They reminded me of the flying mounts of the Nazgúl that I saw at the Battle of the Black Gate during the war," said Gimli, "they swooped down upon us and snatched up four of the company. I swear by Aulë, I felt the claws of their foul wings brush against me! We lost three more of the company before we reached the river valley where they could not swoop down to reach us."

"I have seen these fell worms," said Faramir, "this is not the first time they have flown over Ithilien. They first came five years ago. We have not seen them since, save for a few sightings over Ephel Dúath."

"My lord, that brings us to other news," said Beregond, "one of the Ranger-cadets sighted a band of Orcs to the north east during the exercise a few days hence."

"Why did he not report this three days ago?" Faramir asked.

"He was convinced for a time that his imagination had run rampant on him," said Beregond, "for he said he saw a great dark shape, winged, with gleaming claws aside a dim fire. It was night and he was tired and thought he was seeing things."

"The Orcs and the fell worms came from that direction," said Gimli, "it would seem that Ithilien has been invaded."

Faramir was clearly troubled by this. He rose from his seat and began to slowly circle the table as the rest of the conversation continued, a hand to his chin in thought.

"What puzzles me most is how they are choosing to move," said Beregond, "Orcs have never bothered to act covertly before. If they are making a move, why not simply attack, as is their way?"

"Much as I am loathe to say anything in their praise," said Ghan, "the Uruk-hai have shown the ability to adapt to new situations. Perhaps the defeat of the Enemy has forced them to find new ways of waging war."

"Or perhaps they receive aid and direction for someone else," said Gimli.

"Uruk-hai are too treacherous to be ruled or controlled by anything less than a wizard," said Faramir, "Mithrandir has sailed for the west and Curunír is dead. I have from time to time heard of a third wizard in the north, Radagast the Brown. But it is said that he cares more for the beasts of the world than for Men or Orcs."

"Perhaps he has gained new interest," said Beregond.

"I do not think so," said Gimli, shaking his head, "Gandalf and Aragorn spoke of him from time to time in the days of the Fellowship. I don't think Radagast has the wit or the inclination to lead the Orcs against Men."

"Then we are left with self-ruling Uruk-hai," said Faramir. He stopped pacing then and, clasping his hands behind his back, he faced the table again. "At any rate, this does not address the problem of the Orkish incursion. Beregond, assemble a company to rout them. Take the Ranger-cadet as a guide, if he is able."

"Aye, my lord," said Beregond, "with your permission, I shall lead the company."

After a momentary pause, Faramir nodded his assent. "Have caution, my friend."

"Aye, my lord," said Beregond, rising. He gave a short bow, then departed.

"If ye don't mind my saying, Lord Steward," said Gimli, "you seem more than passing troubled by all this."

"It is for a simple reason, Master Gimli," said Faramir, "it is because I am troubled."

* * *

Beregond took the next hours to prepare for the sortie. To his aid, he called Léowine and the Ithilrochonath as well as Mablung and the Rangers. With them also went Ranger-cadet Glorlas, who had seen the Orkish company in the woods. A measure of the Moon Riders remained behind to augment the Minas Estel citadel guard and were placed temporarily under the command of Damrod.

For the first time since the siege of Minas Tirith during the War of the Ring, Beregond donned his full armor. Ithilien had enjoyed five years of relative peace, bothered only by the occasional raid by Orcs upon patrols. As the captain's main duty was in Minas Estel, he had not had reason to ride to battle. And so, as he put it on, the armor felt coarse and restricting. But, with Bergil's help, it was adjusted back to a comfortable state. All throughout the process, Bergil looked at his father with trepidation. Finally, Beregond could stand the worried looks no longer.

"All right then, Bergil," he said as he fastened the last strap on his bracer, "what is on your mind?"

"Nothing," Bergil replied, "everything is fine."

"Bergil, I am your father. Think you that I do not recognize when you are in a foul mood?"

"Of course not, father."

"Out with it, then."

The youth said nothing, instead handing Beregond his sword and watching him buckle it to his side. Finally, Bergil found enough conviction to speak his peace.

"Father, I wish to ride with you."

"Absolutely not."

"But, father, Glorlas is going!"

"Glorlas is needed to show us where he saw the Orcs," Beregond stated, "and aside from that, he has shown that he is ready for this."

"And I have not?"

"No, Bergil, you have not!"

Beregond's admission seemed to hit Bergil as forcefully as a strike across the face. Shrinking somewhat, he took a step back, seemingly in a desire to melt into the wall. His eyes were cast down in a mixture of hurt and confusion. "But, I don't understand," he all but whispered, "am I not one of the best fighters among the cadets? Can I not hold my own? Father, I will not be hurt! No mere Orc will lay hand on me ere I strike him down!"

"And that is why you are not ready," said Beregond, "no soldier rides to battle assuming that his enemy is weaker than he! To do so is folly!"

"I came through the Dawnless Day!"

"You did not see any real battle in the Dawnless Day!"

The argument had grown in volume. Both father and son were shouting now, standing toe-to-toe. Unwaveringly, Beregond met Bergil's gaze.

"Battle is not your drills. Battle is not your practice matches! Could you abandon a comrade to complete your task? To follow orders? Could you leave him to your enemy knowing that he will die?"

Bergil shrank back again and it was clear that it was Beregond who had the upper hand in the argument, now. Although Bergil looked every bit the grown youth of seventeen, Beregond could see only the boy he had been in his eyes. Bergil searched and searched his mind for a suitable response, but he had been struck witless by the thoughts his father had conjured up for him. Beregond set aside his sword and gathered his son to him, feeling the youth tremble slightly.

"That is battle, Bergil," he said, "that is war. Never have I faced a day more terrible than when I had to choose between the lives of Lord Faramir and my brothers in arms of the Citadel. You are not ready to make such a choice. You are not ready to take such an action."

"How could any man be ready for such horror?" Bergil asked.

"No man can be ready unless he is soulless and black of heart. Men can only hope to survive it."

* * *

That part of the White Company that Beregond led departed not long later. Bergil was at the gate and watched his father leave, riding at the head of the column. After the captain was through the gate, Bergil went back to the Citadel and looked northward. The company showed bright against the grasslands, a short stream of white flowing along the south road.

Bergil watched them travel for as long as his eyes could make them out. At last, they faded into the distance. His heart heavy with concern, he made his way to his father's house in the citadel, looking to find the peace of solitude.

However, as he went, he passed a door to one of the watch towers and it opened suddenly. The Lord Faramir stepped out and Bergil saw for but a moment a mirror of his own concern upon the Steward's face. It was quickly covered by a look of confusion. Bergil inclined his head in a bow and stepped aside so Faramir could pass, but the Prince paused.

"Young Master Bergil, haven't you lessons?" he asked.

"Nay, my lord," said Bergil, "Commander Mablung rides with my father."

"I see," said Faramir in thought, "then the Ranger-cadets have been left idle while their fathers ride without them. Nay, I shall not have lessons suffer for lack of an instructor. Gather your fellows. I shall instruct you today."

"Aye, my lord," said Bergil, "it will be a great honor." He bowed again and hastened on his way.

Not long after, the Ranger-cadets were assembled on the practice grounds in the sixth circle within sight of the Houses of Healing. For long hours, Faramir instructed them in the art of sword and bow until at last the Sun went down in the west and the stars began to shine. It was then that Faramir instructed the cadets in a skill of a different sort; reading the stars. Though most seemed tried by the academic lesson, Bergil and a few others listened with rapt attention as Faramir explained how to use the stars to tell direction, time, even how far north they were. At last, the hour grew late and the cadets were dismissed.

* * *

No word came from Beregond all that night, nor did any come in the morning. Indeed, it was nearly mid-day before a single horse rode the path to Minas Estel, its rider dressed in the browns and greens of the Rangers.

It was the cadet Glorlas who passed through the gate. He had been wounded, scratched by great claws that had raked his back, and had only barely made it to the city. Exhausted and unwell, he had to be carried from the gate to the Houses of Healing. Worried that he would fall into deep sleep, he told his tale to the healer Ioreth. Faramir came to the houses only minutes after Glorlas fell into unconsciousness, and so it was left to Ioreth to tell the tale.

"My lord, the company has been attacked!" she said to him.

"Such a thing is hardly surprising, Madame," said Faramir, "they rode to war."

"Nay, nay, but forgive me; I was not clear," she said, "or rather I was not complete in my telling. It's as my father always said to me. _One must say what one means or one can never mean what one says_. He was a wise man, my father. Knew the lore of the kings of old, he did."

"Ioreth, our lives will pass into the lore of old if you do not tell me what you have learned from Glorlas."

"Oh, of course. Please forgive an old woman. Well, as I said, my lord, the White Company has been attacked. But not just by the Orkish types they went to hunt. Glorlas spoke of winged creatures issuing from Minas Morgul; a whole swarm of them, fifteen or maybe more!"

"Fifteen!" Faramir exclaimed. "Were they the fell worms?"

"Well, I… I don't rightly know, I'm afraid. But, they began to get the better of Captain Beregond's men, that much is certain. Glorlas was sent to call for aid and he fears the White Company may be trapped near Minas Morgul by now."

"This is ill news indeed," said Faramir, "I must go and see what strength we here in Minas Estel can send to Beregond." Faramir turned to leave in haste, but was halted by Ioreth's voice.

"There was one other thing the boy mentioned, my lord," she said, "it would seem that one of the flying creatures pursued Glorlas for a time. He lost it in the woods, but… well, he is convinced its eyes are still upon him."

Faramir nodded his understanding. "Tend your patient, Madame Ioreth," he told her, "I shall see to this."

The Prince departed and went to see what could be done. So in haste was he that he failed to notice Bergil standing just out of sight around a corner, wearing a look of distress.

* * *

"Just who would ye send, Lord Steward?" This was the question of Gimli the Dwarf when once again the concerned parties were assembled in the council chamber of the House of the Prince. "You've naught but a skeleton guard here in Minas Estel already."

"I must agree with Master Gimli," said Damrod, sitting for the moment in Beregond's chair. "To send any more of the White Company away… we would not hold the city if it was attacked."

Shaking his head and pacing up and down the length of the chamber with his hands clasped behind his back, Faramir turned back to them. "We would not hold it now," he said, "not against a full attack out of Mordor."

"Begging pardon, Lord Steward," said Ghan, "but I don't think the Orkish King has the resources to reach this far south with a full attack."

"That is no reason to send away more of the Company," said Damrod, "my lord, my men are not trained for warfare away from battlements. Most of them have only seen war from the walls of fortresses. They excel at that, but they would falter quickly in battle upon the plains before Minas Morgul. To send them out is madness!"

"To leave Beregond's company to die is madness!" Faramir rejoined. "We cannot afford to decimate the White Company in that way! And _you_, Commander, should mind how you bandy about such words as 'madness!'"

"Aye, my lord," Damrod said, crestfallen, "my apologies."

"Whatever you decide to do, best decide quickly," said Ghan from his place at Gimli's elbow, "Captain Beregond and his company can't have much time left to them."

"We could send to Minas Tirith for aid," Damrod suggested, "surely the King could send help."

"It is dangerous," said Faramir, "the worm that pursued Glorlas may be watching for others. And, as you said, Damrod, none of the Gate Guard are trained in the Ranger arts and could evade it."

"I will go, my lord," came a voice from the doorway of the chamber, small but certain. All turned to it and saw there Bergil, a mixture of worry and determination on his face. "If this task is best left to a Ranger, and if no other can be spared, send me."

"Why you skulking rascal!" Gimli exclaimed. "Eavesdropping on the conversations and councils of warriors like a specter!"

"I am no specter, Master Gimli," said Bergil, "indeed, I am myself a warrior."

"This is no task for a cadet!" Damrod snapped at him. "And no council for one, either! Depart this hall at once and I shall deal with you later!"

But Faramir had paused in thought and stood watching Bergil as the others protested his presence. The youth stood tall and determined and did not waver. The Prince finally spoke just as Damrod was rising to usher Bergil from the room.

"Wait," he said. He approached Bergil and Damrod stood aside. For a long moment, he looked down at the youth, considering the look in his eyes. "This task requires both stealth and speed," he said at last, "you have shown a propensity to forgo one for the other."

"Mere war games, my lord," Bergil stated, a note of desperation now coming to his voice, "in this, lives are at stake. My father's life is at stake! If I cannot ride with him, at least let me ride _for_ him!"

With a sigh, Faramir turned away from Bergil in thought. He paced to the nearest window and stood there, looking out, his hands once again clasped behind his back. Damrod, Gimli, and Ghan all stood in silence, watching him and waiting for a reply, but none of them watched more closely than Bergil. So quiet was the hall that Faramir could make out the sob deep in Bergil's throat, held back desperately. Finally, his decision made, he turned back to the youth.

"This task needs doing and there is no one else to do it," he said, "I have my doubts about this. But, I see in you a determination that will not be denied. You would go against my word for what you perceive to be the greater good, if it came to it. You are like your father in that respect, yes?"

Bergil made no reply, but he colored a rather deep shade of red and shifted uncomfortably under Faramir's scrutiny.

"I am willing to put my faith in you, Bergil. Nay! Smile not! This is a grave thing. If you fail in this, it will mean the death of many, including your father. It may also mean the ruin of Ithilien."

"I swear to you, I will not fail."

Faramir nodded. "Then your honor is tied to this task as of this moment. Go to Minas Tirith and tell King Elessar of all that we have here heard. Stay in the wood until you come to Osgiliath and cross the Andúin in the ruins' shadow. From there, make for the City of Kings."

"Yes, my lord. As you say."

"Then go and fear no darkness, son of Beregond."

With a short, quick bow, Bergil departed in haste. The others in the room stood in silence a long while, pondering what had happened.

"This is a thing unheard of," Gimli said at last, "leaving the fate of Ithilien in the hands of a mere boy!"

"Take heart, Master Gimli," said Faramir, "Bergil may be young, but he is well-trained and he has heart in his favor. I said I put my faith in him and to that I will hold."

* * *

Thus it was that Bergil was sent from Minas Estel. He had now the full authority of a Ranger, though that privilege was to lapse upon his arrival in Minas Tirith. He traveled light, taking only his sword and bow, a few arrows, provision for one day, and the Steward's message. He took no horse, preferring the subtle fall of his own feet and the ability to disappear into the brush at need. One of the fell worms had been spotted from Minas Estel's greatest tower and Bergil had been told that the worm's eyes had  
seemed keen enough to see through the thinner trees that overhung the paths.

Swift as a shadow, he passed over the narrow grassland that surrounded the city and entered the woods. He took care to leave little sign of his passing, but did not take overmuch time in the hiding. For some hours, his journey was unhindered and he moved swiftly.

However, Bergil was brought to a halt with a chill when he heard a soulless wail and the beating of strong wings. A dark shape passed overhead and Bergil took to the brush, pulling in his green cloak, hoping it would hide him. The black figure passed onward and he heard the beating wings fade into the distance. All was silence until Bergil heard the rustling of leaves and branches nearby. It came from the north and was heading straight for him. It spread and manifested itself into at least three distinct patches, arrayed about him in a rough semi-circle. As silently as he could, Bergil drew his sword.

Suddenly, from above, there came a terrible squeal and a round shape dropped down upon Bergil, wrapping eight barbed legs around his shoulders. Forgoing his hiding place, Bergil jumped up and slashed at it with his sword, sending it flying into a nearby tree. Almost immediately, the three patches of disturbed brush exploded forth with similar creatures, spiders large enough to grasp his chest. Bergil felled one with a great slash of his sword and stepped aside of the other two. As the spiders regrouped, he took off at a run, heading straight westward. Bergil heard the spiders behind him, moving terrible fast.

"T'was a trap," Bergil realized, "something moves these creatures." He had no time to ponder this, though. The dark figure of the fell worm wheeled overhead again, now blocking his light, now circling back around.

The edge of the wood was now not far off. Bergil knew he would soon lose what little cover he had as he would have to cross the grasses to Osgiliath; both the spiders and the worm would be upon him. His secrecy was lost and all hope now lay in his swiftness, unless he was fortunate enough to have some luck.

Short of the tree line, Bergil turned. Knocking an arrow in his bow, he took aim at one spider and let loose, slaying it. The other two came at him at once. One met the point of his sword and was run through. But Bergil's sword became entrapped in the spider corpse and the last of the creatures landed on his back and wrapped its legs around his chest. His sword left his hand and he thrashed about wildly, trying to dislodge the spider. Finally, feeling the beginning prick of a sting making its way through the leather armor on his side, Bergil stumbled backward into a great stone, crushing the spider. As it fell, dead and bloodied, Bergil felt the prick in his side begin to itch. He put it out of his mind and retrieved his sword. He hastened southward, away from the site of the battle, taking to stealth once again.

Overhead, the fell worm wound back and forth along the tree line, now farther north, now south, now looping over the river. Bergil watched it, still as a stone, for nearly an hour until it was clear that the worm and its Uruk-hai rider could not see him and knew not where he was.

The worm turned its back to him and flew north. As soon as he felt the time right, Bergil left his hiding place and went out from the woods, sprinting for the ruin of Osgiliath. Halfway across the grass, Bergil heard the worm wail again. He did not break stride, but looked to it and saw it swooping southward toward him. Renewing his sprint, Bergil made for the wooden bridge over the river. The worm was upon him as he crossed and he fell to the rough boards to avoid its claws. As the worm circled around for a second strafe, Bergil recovered and stumbled the rest of the way across the bridge. He dove into the crumbled husk of an ancient building and the worm's claws met naught but stone. Bergil sheltered in the ruin, but the worm circled overhead as if daring him to leave his newfound safety.

And so, halfway to Minas Tirith, the only hope of the White Company, Bergil was trapped.

* * *

The book that Faramir would write in, as a great many articles of his office were, was white. Upon the cover was gilt in silver the symbol of the White Tree in splendor. It was one of the things he had learned from his father; that a record of the day to day happenings of Gondor needed keeping. Boromir had always rolled his eyes each time Denethor had stressed its importance, but it was one of the things that made Faramir's eyes light with admiration.

This day, there had been much for the Steward to write. He tried to keep it to the impersonal account of fact he knew it was his duty to write, but always it seemed to drift back to the respective plights of the Captain of the White Company and his young son. Faramir was greatly worried for both Beregond and Bergil and it showed in the writing.

Nearly mournfully, he set his quill aside, leaving the account unfinished as the events were the same. He let the ink dry as he read over the page once more. Finally, he closed the book and looked at its cover for some time, pondering his various duties and their implications and consequences.

Éowyn entered then, quietly, and seeing that Faramir was teetering on the edge of despair went to embrace him from behind.

"It is too early to despair," she told him, "the White Company is strong. They will hold until the King's aid arrives."

"Fréodgyth is asleep?" Faramir asked.

"At last," Éowyn replied, "I have not slept a night through in years, it seems to me at times."

Faramir took her hand in his. "Our children are the most cherished gift you have given me. Éowyn, if this battle should go ill..."

"I will not remove to Minas Tirith without you."

Faramir stood and turned to face Éowyn, her hands still grasped in his. "Not with me, but with our children."

"I will send them with their governess, but I will not go. Not while there is need of healing hands in Minas Estel and Ithilien."

"They will need a parent."

"_A_ parent?" Éowyn questioned. "Surely, they will have both, will they not?"

"As I said," Faramir stated, "if the battle should go ill-"

With a scowl, Éowyn cast Faramir's hands away from her. "You mean to ride with whatever aid the King sends."

"They will have need of leadership and of someone who knows the lay of the land."

"If I understand Aragorn's motivations, I am given to believe that he will lead them himself."

"Then I must go as the King's man."

"Faramir, there is no need for you to ride! If the battle should go ill, as you say, will Gondor not have need of her Steward?"

"Eldarion shall be king after Elessar," said Faramir, "the rule of Gondor need not return to the Stewards, nor should it."

"Eldarion is four years old! He cannot possibly-"

"What would you have me do, Éowyn? Call the king to _my_ service? I am _Arandur_, king's servant! It is I who draws my sword for him, not the other way 'round!"

As soon as they had tumbled from his mouth, Faramir regretted his words. Éowyn no longer stood before him in distress but rather in defiance. Her eyes grew hard and her hands, hidden in her long sleeves, became fists. It was in that moment that Faramir realized he had made a grievous error; he had spoken to his wife as if she were a mere vassal. And, knowing her as he did, he knew what was to come.

"I would not have you forget your duties to the King, my lord," she said, harshly and menacingly quiet, spitting out the last two words as a curse, "but nor would I have you forget your duties to your family." She stared at him long and hard and there was a certain amount of venom in the gaze. Finally, it pierced through to Faramir's heart and he could stand it no longer.

"Éowyn," he began softly.

But she whirled away from him and departed the room, quickly, leaving Faramir alone and despondent.

Faramir finally collapsed back into the seat before his desk. Once again, he was met with the sight of the white book. He contemplated it a long time before opening it to the page where he left off. Taking up his pen, he wrote one more line:

_I begin to understand the words of my father; pride and despair._

* * *

Some time later, Faramir went to the great tower of the citadel. He climbed the winding stairs and emerged in the circular overlook just below the topmost chamber. Damrod was there, his eye pressed to the eyepiece of a mounted spyglass, pointing westward into the setting sunlight.

"Any news?" Faramir asked the commander.

Damrod jumped, surprised to hear a voice behind him, and knocked into the spyglass. His quick reflexes managed to save it from toppling over the side of the wall and down the tower.

"My lord!" he exclaimed, righting the spyglass. "No, no movement from Minas Tirith, yet. But..." Damrod cast his gaze to the west, a wrinkle in his brow.

"But?" Faramir questioned. "Do not keep me in suspense, Damrod."

"I've spotted the fell worm. It circles over Osgiliath, near the bridge. I think it hunts Bergil."

Faramir pushed Damrod aside and took up the spyglass. Squinting through the orange light of the Sun, he trained it on Osgiliath and saw there a dark, winged form perched upon the broken dome of the city ruin. It was hunched over like a vulture in a tree awaiting the chance to move in on left over carrion.

"Our messenger has failed," Damrod said, despair in his voice, "the White Company will fall."

"Nay, hope is not lost," said Faramir, "the creature still hunts him. That means it has not yet found him. Bergil may be young and unprepared for full war, but he is not incapable as a Ranger."

"Forgive me, my lord, for I wish to speak no ill of Captain Beregond or his kin, but the lad is impulsive and undisciplined. I fear he will deliver himself into the creature's claws yet."

"Perhaps," said Faramir, "but I doubt he will fail us. Bergil is still a lad of ten years in his eyes. His heroes cannot be defeated and most especially his father can do no wrong. That is what he aspires to; that grand, idyllic myth that you and I have lost. Scoff not at the power of such a vision."

"Aye, my lord," said Damrod, "but can such a vision really deliver one from the claws of a beast?"

"Probably not," said Faramir, "but in this case, salvation is the domain of help unlooked for."

As he spoke, Faramir saw the gate of Minas Tirith open. A legion of silver-clad horsemen poured forth, glinting in the orange light, and raced across the Pelennor.

"Where your aspirations fail," said Faramir, "your luck and your faith in your heroes may prevail."

* * *

Through a small crack in the wall, barely larger than his hand, Bergil could see the fell worm perched upon the broken dome. It had been there for some time, its rider and master patiently waiting for the moment Bergil dared to crawl outside again.

At more than one point, the youth met the creature's gaze and stared it down. In those moments he was frozen with the icy chill of terror, unable even to breathe. He was trapped in one of those moments now, the creature's steely eye boring into his will, attempting to undermine it. _Give up_, it seemed to say, _your struggle is futile_.

Their silent discourse was interrupted when it seeped into the back of Bergil's mind that he heard the call of a horn and the shouting of men. The beast broke contact first as its rider jerked the reins aside. It spread its wings and with a great wind lifted off from the dome. Bergil scrambled to the other side of his refuge and looked out another hole to the west. He there saw, riding over the Pelennor, no less than twenty mounted knights of Gondor, some with short bows, the rest with swords raised high. The dark shape of the fell worm passed over them. The strings of the bowmen twanged. The worm shrieked and circled around.

Bergil scrambled out of his hiding place and pulled a white kerchief, the lone symbol of the White Company that he carried, from a pouch on his belt with his left hand. With his right, he drew his sword. He took off at his fastest run and sprinted from the ruin of Osgiliath, waving the kerchief above his head. Even so, he was near halfway to Rammas Echor before the Captain of the Knights saw him and rallied his men to Bergil's aid.

Too late, Bergil noticed that he had lost track of the worm. For one insane moment, he could have sworn the bowmen were taking aim at him. But an instant later, sharp claws pierced through his upraised arm and Bergil was lifted off the ground. The worm wailed again and the wind around him was so foul he would have retched if his throat had not been constricted in terror. Wildly, and without thinking, Bergil lashed out with his sword, slashing upward. The fell worm shrieked and Bergil's arm was released. He found himself falling and he hit the ground hard, feeling a sharp pain in his leg, then tumbling to a halt. Somehow, he climbed to his feet and found that the Knights had surrounded him. The Captain called an attack on the worm and the rest of the Knights went forth again.

"You seem to be in no small amount of danger, lad," said the Captain, dismounting and moving to steady Bergil.

"I am Bergil, son of Beregond," he said in reply, "I bear an urgent message for the King from Prince Faramir."

"I am needed here," said the Captain, "and you are not fit to run any longer. Take my horse and ride. We of the Grey Company shall deal with the flying menace." Bergil was about to protest but before he could say anything, the Captain had hoisted him into the saddle. "Go now," he said, "deliver your message."

"Wait!" said Bergil, unhitching his bow and quiver from his gear. "You cannot wound that beast with sword alone. Take these."

The Captain took the arms without hesitation. "Enough talk, lad! Ride!" He gave the horse a sturdy nudge and the mount whinnied and took off at a gallop.

By the time Bergil had passed through Rammas Echor, his arm and leg had begun to scream in agony and he wished to call the horse to a halt and collapse to the ground. Yet when he caught sight of Minas Tirith, a strange terror seized him again. Suddenly, all Bergil wished to do was flee the worm and harbor within the walls of the White City. In the face of this fear, his pain fled. Bergil spurred the horse on and it was all too glad to comply. It was only a few minutes before Bergil came to the gate of the city.

"In the name of the White Company!" he called. "Let me pass!"

There were shouts on the wall above and the gate opened a horse's breadth a moment later. As he entered, Bergil again announced that he carried a message for the King. The guards let him pass, but not without giving Bergil rather strange looks somewhere between amazement and pity. Bergil could not think why they would be looking at him in that way, but he cared not.

Bergil galloped his horse up the winding road to the Citadel, shouting for people to make way. For a moment, he thought that perhaps he was riding all the way to the sky. But it was just then that he came to the tunnel that entered the Citadel. He was allowed to pass and he reined his horse to a halt beneath the Tower of Ecthelion. He dismounted and stumbled up the stairs into the antechamber.

He could not remember later whether or not he had followed protocol, nor could he remember if he had cared at that moment. Bergil remembered standing in the middle of the throne hall, the tight scroll from Prince Faramir clutched in his hand and several people all staring at him aghast. King Elessar descended the stairs of his throne quickly and looked at him with worry.

"Ithilien is attacked," said Bergil, desperately, "the White Company is besieged. Prince Faramir calls for aid."

Gently, Elessar took the scroll from Bergil's hand. "The message is delivered," he said softly, "the White Company will have its aid." He passed the scroll aside to another set of hands and for the first time, Bergil noticed that Queen Arwen was near as well, her gentle face creased with concern. Elessar then took Bergil's face in both hands and leaned in closely. "_Leithio goe lín_," he said, "_garo post a nesto_."

Though Bergil could not understand the words, he found at once that the terror that had beset him lifted. As if exploding inward to fill some vacuum, the pain of his previous hurts slammed into him. His arm screamed in agony, his side started afire, he was beset by an uncontrollable shiver, the room began to spin, and his leg gave way beneath him. All these would have deposited him on the floor if hands had not been there to catch him.

The face of the Queen was above him a moment later. "Fetch a litter, quickly!" She exclaimed. "Bring him to the Houses of Healing!"

He was aware of footfalls somewhere not far off. But Bergil's vision began to blur. He closed his eyes to it. Then he heard the voice of the King.

"Muster the Grey Company!" he commanded. "We ride for Ithilien!"

As his waking mind began to spin off into darkness, all Bergil could think of was that his father was saved.

* * *

By the time the Grey Company had been mustered and rank-and-file soldiers of the White City were added to their number, the company that rode out of Minas Tirith numbered somewhere around three-hundred. Elessar rode at the head of the column beneath the banner of the king, his silver armor covered by a surcoat of black and Andúril at his side.

As they passed beyond Rammas Echor, they came to the downed carcass of the fell worm. Flies had already begun to swarm around it and the summer heat made it reek so badly the company could almost see the fumes rising from it. Silence settled upon them as they passed and no single soldier could keep himself from looking upon it.

Elessar led his company through most of the night, cross the Andúin at Osgiliath and coming within sight of Minas Estel but two hours before dawn. There, four riders approached them under the banner of the Steward. It was Faramir and one of his knights, arrayed in the colors of the White Company, and Gimli and Ghan. The were welcomed into the King's company and so set forth with them. On the Steward's counsel, they rode north from there, making for the battlefield beneath Minas Morgul.

As they went, Elessar spent time conversing with Gimli for he had not seen his friend for some time. They spoke of days past and better nights spent sitting around fires and sharing stories. At length, their talk turned to the Fellowship of the Ring and when it turned also to Boromir, Faramir distanced himself from them and concerned himself with the company. Eventually, he saw Gimli and Ghan drop back to tend to other things and the King beckoned Faramir over.

"Faramir, why have you ridden with the Grey Company?" Aragorn asked as they rode. "I would think that your skill would be needed in your city."

"I am confident in the safety of Minas Estel," Faramir replied, "and I would know first hand what threat there is against my lands and my people."

"Faramir," said Aragorn with skepticism, "I asked not for an excuse."

The Steward gave a short, humorless laugh. "Apologies. An old habit."

"I read you correctly, then. You worry for Beregond and the White Company."

"It would seem I've made a complete blunder of the situation. If I read this correctly, this was from the beginning a trap. The Orkish king may seek to wipe out the Gondorian soldiery east of the Andúin. That is how I would begin a war in all earnest in this land, if I were he."

"But you are most decidedly not he," said Aragorn, "and no Orc bothers with such tactics. Their strength lies in their numbers."

"It is pure speculation, my lord. And in any case, it comes too late."

"And so you seek to clean up the mess personally. That is admirable. But you cannot always ride to the captain's rescue."

"Why not?" Faramir asked, rather more sharply than he had intended at first. "He is the captain of my company and therefore my responsibility. But more than that and more importantly, he is my friend. He stood for me in the dark days with Mithrandir and Peregrin. And yet of all three of them, he is the one who has remained at my side without condition and without regret. How could I do any less than to... nay, Aragorn, I will ride to his aid as long as it is within my power to do so."

There was a very long silence between them after that. The sound of their horses' feet hung in the air. Finally, Aragorn shook his head with a smile.

"By the Valar!" he said. "You have been carrying that around for some time! Have you not even spoken to Éowyn of this?"

"Well," Faramir said at length around a bitter laugh, "there is another matter entirely."

Aragorn was about to ask him to elaborate, but a voice called from the ridge ahead of them. It was the vanguard rider they had sent to scout the way ahead.

"A rider approaches!" he called. "He wears the colors of the White Company!"

Elessar and Faramir spurred their horses onward and rode to the top of the ridge. There they saw approaching them Léowine, riding hard and fast. As he came close, he appeared to them over-weary and much in need of relief.

"King Elessar, my lord Faramir," he greeted, bringing his horse along side and inclining his head respectfully, "glad I am to see the banners of the King and the Grey Company. We were beginning to think word had not reached you."

"Come, Commander, and ride with us," said Elessar, "what news of the White Company?"

"They hold their position on the plains before Minas Morgul," Léowine answered, "but we have lost near a third of those who set out with us from Minas Estel."

"A third?" Faramir exclaimed. "Léowine, we must know everything. Begin at the beginning."

"Yes, my lord," said Léowine, "as you know, we began at Minas Estel. Glorlas led us to the place he had seen the Orcs and the fell worm. Mablung found the signs and once again they pointed to Minas Morgul. And so we followed them, expecting only a small party. In point of fact, we did observe a party of twenty or so Uruk-hai making their way across the plain when we arrived. We thought we had perhaps mustered the whole of the White Company without reason. Beregond sent fifty of my riders in pursuit of them.

"T'was then a thing most strange happened. The Orkish party made across the bridge before the Dead City and entered within. The gate closed after them and we thought they had decided to harbor within. The captain, Mablung, and I gave thought to perhaps leaving them be; they seemed harmless enough and cowed. But, our orders were to rout them utterly, so we turned our thought to dragging them from the city. We set a camp upon the plain and debated how to go about it as we would have to get into the city first.

"But that, it turned out, was our mistake. It was just after sunset when our folly was revealed. Horns sounded from the city and the cries of the worms answered; first one, then a few more, then a din that would have drowned the fair music of Lúthien Tinúviel even in its brightest hour. The gates of Minas Morgul opened and no less than a dozen of the worms took to the sky. Orcs poured forth from the city just after them and made to attack the camp, hundreds of them! T'was then we realized that the Uruk-hai had already taken the city and fortified it."

"By the Valar," Faramir said, grinding his teeth together, "when could they have slipped past our patrols? And on such a scale!"

"The White Company has done an excellent job guarding these lands," said Elessar, "but they cannot be everywhere at once. Minas Estel and Cair Andros were properly your first priorities. Perhaps this was inevitable. Pray, Master Léowine, continue."

The Ithilrochon nodded. "We were forced to fight a holding action throughout the night," he said, "and as we did, the Orcs set their own garrisons, leaving the company with but one path of retreat. We tried to take it, but the fell worms beset us and we found we could not retreat."

"Then, Faramir, you guess right!" Elessar exclaimed in near horror. "A trap it was, indeed! But that cannot be. That is not the Orkish way of waging war."

"The Uruk-hai have been using many such tactics of late," said Faramir, "it disturbs me greatly."

"We managed to hold our chosen ground until dawn," Léowine continued, "and we sent Glorlas to call for aid. At sunrise, the worms became curiously less fierce. They did not circle above us except at need to keep us hemmed in. It was by that grace alone that we were able to hold throughout the day. And, I suspect, the reason Glorlas was able to get through to you."

"And what of this night?" Faramir asked.

"Both sides weary of the battle, my lord, but our company's strength is failing faster. The Uruk-hai are tightening their noose. I left but a few hours ago to see what help had been sent, although I will admit that we had begun to despair of any coming."

"Despair no longer," said Elessar, "we here shall break the Orkish lines, if only to allow the White Company to escape."

"Then, you do not mean to besiege Minas Morgul?" Léowine asked.

"Nay," said the king, "we have not the manpower. It would take both the White Company and the Grey for such a task, and the former is far too exhausted."

"I am loathe simply to leave Minas Ithil to the Orcs," said Faramir, bitterly, "they will have a line available to them out of the Morannon."

"True," said Elessar, "but the Orcs have won this battle already. Best to rescue the company and fight another day."

"I agree, my king," said Faramir, "but still, I dislike the thought of an Orkish supply route through my fair Ithilien."

They continued riding for a few hours more. Elessar and Faramir questioned Léowine further concerning the strength and positions of the Orcs and they took counsel with Gimli and Ghan.

At last, the company came to a high hill overlooking the plain before Minas Morgul. Smoke rose from the ground and hung in the air in stagnant patches. The Orcs had set fires along the perimeter of the battle field to guard the places where they could not hinder the White Company's escape. The ground was blackened where such fires had already gone out and battle had begun anew atop them. There were great gashes in the plain, the tell tale sign of boulders flying from the catapults upon the city battlements. The din that arose held screams of war and agony alike in a cacophonous mixture of terror.

The White Company stood as a knot of white encircled on all sides but one by the foul and dirty black-clad Orcs. Valiantly, they pushed outward upon the lines, but it did little save to prevent the inward push of the Orkish forces. High upon the crags of Ephel Dúath, the forms of the fell worms hunched over and watched, eyes keen to the battle.

Elessar absorbed the scene for but a moment, then turned his horse aside to speak, riding up and down along the line of the Grey Company. Faramir's own horse stamped the ground in agitation.

"Hold, friends!" shouted the king. "Hold firm! Captain Inglor, lead your men on an assault upon the northern line! Bowmen, ride the center and clear the air of the worms! Third and fourth battalions, follow the Steward's banner! The rest of you, ride with me! Now we ride to the aid of our comrades! Knights of Gondor, to the White Company!" And saying this, he drew forth Andúril, shining in the first rays of the morning sunrise, and held it aloft. The ringing of other swords drawn from their scabbards answered it and horns sounded. Elessar began the charge and the Grey Company followed as one.

Faramir led his men around toward the south and broke upon the back edge of the Orkish line there. They hewed down the first ranks before slowing from the onslaught. The battle was joined and Faramir found himself leading his horse in deadly circles, his sword singing as it whirled through the air. He saw not far ahead the banner of the White Company. Knowing Beregond would be near, he determined to fight through the growing melee to it. By then, though the Uruk-hai stood their ground, the Orcs had scattered somewhat, shielding their eyes from the rising sun. The few still left were quickly trampled under the hooves of the Grey Company horses.

Faramir quickly broke through and he set his eyes upon his beleaguered White Company. Beregond was in the thick of the fighting, desperately rallying those men near to him to a new attack. Several Uruk-hai were closing in on him, bearing terrible swords, their faces hidden under dark helms of crude steel. The Steward and the soldiers with him charged in at the Uruk-hai from behind and pushed them aside. With a great cheer, the White Company sprang ahead and joined them.

"To the south, to the south!" they shouted. "A path is opened!"

As soon as he was able, Faramir came along side Beregond.

"Can the company fight its way through?" he asked over the din.

"We can now," the captain answered, "the aid you brought is beyond my imagination. Where did you find so many more soldiers in Ithilien?"

"Not Ithilien," said Faramir, "these are knights who ride under the banner of the King."

"The king!" Beregond exclaimed. "Then we may yet retake Minas Morgul."

"Nay, we have not the forces. The Grey Company was not prepared to make siege."

"But, my lord-"

"Nay, Beregond. It shall avail us not. We shall have to reclaim it another time." Saying this, he turned to address the rest of the White Company. "Make for the king's banner!" he shouted. The White Company gave a cheer in response and brandished their swords high.

The battle also continued elsewhere. From the north, Captain Inglor of the Grey Company led his men on a furious charge, forcing the lines of the Uruk-hai to swing eastward, nearly back to the bridge before Minas Morgul. The king's banner and the men who rode with it made its way up the center, west to east. The fell worms, prodded by their masters from their cliffside roosts, swooped over them. Now and then, a terrible cry would issue from the Grey Company as a rider was lifted from the field. Most often, he would rain back down to the ground in splattering red pieces so mangled it was hard to distinguish horse from rider.

Elessar continued his charge through all of this. Andúril glinted in the dawn light and some Orcs were heard to cry out that the king wielded fire in his hand. At his side rode Gimli and Ghan upon their war ponies, axes raised high and falling in deadly blows.

An Orkish horn sounded from the cliffs and echoed off of the nearby stone. It was heard even over the sounds of battle, resonating its low note. The last of the fell worms took to they sky, then, and went directly toward the king's banner. But, it did not swoop to attack. Rather, it wheeled overhead, its rider still sounding its horn. The Uruk-hai and what few Orcs there were rallied under it.

At nearly the same time, the gates of Minas Morgul opened, scraping metal upon stone. A torn and tattered black flag was revealed, a crude pattern of fire in its center in a dirty red. In front of it, a massive Uruk-hai came riding atop a warg, black spikes upon his helm and a jagged halberd in his hand. Behind him marched a legion of Orcs and Uruk-hai as though they had been all but forced from the city. The Uruk-hai held up his halberd and horns sounded again. He legion charged forward behind him and made for the Tree and Stars.

The Orkish rally cleared the field for a moment, just long enough for the White Company to join the Grey under the king's banner. The worms circled overhead. By now, the entire Gondorian army stood together, Elessar and Faramir at its head, their captains at their sides and no Orc or Uruk-hai stood west of them.

The Orkish line continued to advance, marching forward with pounding, unrelenting footsteps. They came behind their warg-riding leader and their voices cried out a single, undulating chant.

"_Urlak bhosh zurlug_! _Urlak bhosh zurlug_!"

This was Urlak, greatest of the Uruk-hai. This was the Orkish king, reared for battle in the days of the creeping fear and hardened by the War of the Ring. In him was a combination most rare in an Orc; ambition and the strength to back it up.

"My lord," said Faramir to Elessar, "the White Company is too exhausted to fight such an army. Most of them will not survive."

"The Grey Company cannot fight them alone," Inglor protested.

"No, the Orcs have already won this day," said Elessar, "Faramir, have the White Company retreat to Cair Andros. We will cover you for a time."

"Aye, my lord," said Faramir. He turned to Beregond to beckon him along, then rode to pass the word among his soldiers.

"Well now," said Gimli, having appeared at the king's side where Faramir had been. Ghan was close at hand as well. "We've faced bigger armies than this rabble!"

"True, Gimli," Elessar said evenly, "but we have also had larger armies than the one we have now standing at our backs."

"Fool ranger," Gimli muttered with a smirk showing even under his beard, "ever ready to dwell on the down side. Still, never let it be said that Dwarves ever backed away from a fight such as this. Ghan and I shall stand with you, Aragorn, though we rode here with Lord Faramir."

As the Orkish line approached, the Grey Company stood its ground. The White Company filtered back through the ranks of the Gondorians and stood at the Grey Company's back. For moments interminable, the adversaries stood gazing at each other across the torn battlefield. Sound seemed to have been sucked from the air. Then, from the back of the army of the Orcs, an undulating rumble began. It moved forward through their ranks until it finally came to the first line, just behind Urlak. The Uruk-hai stamped their feet in a fearsome march, beating the ground with their weapons.

"Who now is the ruler of Gondor?" Urlak shouted over the din. "Lesser men call the King of the Reunited Kingdom to battle!"

"The Orcs may have thrown off their Dark Lord master," Elessar called back, "but their base minds remain. I see no lesser men here! Only lesser races!"

To this, the lines of men standing behind the king shouted their agreement, utterly drowning the threatening pound of the Orcs. Elessar raised Andúril and a horn sounded over all. In one movement, the Grey Company surged forward to begin the battle.

Faramir watched this new motion for but a moment, only long enough to see it erupt into the utter chaos of battle. As the Grey Company advanced, Faramir signaled the White Company to turn west. Swift as their horses would carry them, they surged down the path opened to them by their rescuers, toward the river Andúin. The Steward came last of them, shouting over the rumble of the horses' hooves.

"Ride! To the river! Ride now!"

Above them, the dark shape of a fell worm circled, barely heeding the command of its master. It turned to make for its cliff-side refuge once, but the crack of a cruel whip brought it about. The rider mastered it and it swooped down low over the retreating White Company. Faramir tied his horses reins to his saddle quickly and made to ready his bow. But, the worm was over him too quickly and he could not hold his horse steady enough without the use of his hands.

Then, quick as lightning, Léowine spurred back toward Faramir upon Windmane, an arrow already upon the string of his small bow. Using the skill taught to him since childhood, he mastered his horse with legs alone. Looping around behind Faramir, between him and the wheeling worm, he let his arrow fly. It caught flesh, where the worm's serpentine neck joined to its body. The worm thrashed, but did not cry out. It struggled onward for a moment more, then fell rolling from the sky. When it landed upon the ground, its rider was caught beneath.

As Léowine caught up to Faramir and the two of them came riding after the rest of the White Company, the Steward cast an ear back toward the fading sound of battle behind them. For a moment, he was torn in two, desiring both to lead his own company to safety and to stay and aid his king. But Elessar's order had been clear; he was to make for Cair Andros. And so, he went.

And thus was the rescue of the White Company achieved.

* * *

Some hours after their retreat, the White Company approached the fleet waters of the Andúin and the island in their midst known as Cair Andros. Trees stood out upon its shore and in between them high walls of brown stone could be glimpsed, capped every so often with short, round turrets where archers stood on watch. The shore lines were broken only by two grand, wooden bridges which reached from the island to the east shore of Ithilien and the west shore of Anórien. Buildings rose from the center of the island, clustered together as if huddling from some menace, clinging to the tall tower in their center, the tallest structure by far. The space between this small city and the island walls was covered in a ring of woodland. Paths had been cut through it at need and a wide one went from the gates at the bridges to the city. As the White Company approached the east bridge, the figures atop the walls moved about with activity.

Faramir rode at the head of the company, careful to keep an eye upon Beregond. Though for some time the captain had been as sharp as ever, as they journeyed he grew ever more silent and wan. At one point, he had all but fallen out of his saddle, asleep. Thus, Faramir silently took on more and more of Beregond's duties as they went.

Now they crossed the east bridge and the gate into the fortress walls opened. The company entered the forests within and when they had come to a large enough clearing Faramir ordered a camp set. The captain of the east gate came down and met the Steward amidst the activity.

"Prince Faramir," he said, "we had heard of trouble east of here, but we did not know the White Company rode."

"We ride from battle at Minas Morgul," said Faramir, "the king and the Grey Company will follow us shortly."

"I shall inform the lord of the city. Have you wounded?"

"Yes."

"Then I shall send for healers as well," said the soldier. He gave a short bow. "Welcome to Cair Andros, Lord Arandur."

After the soldier departed, Faramir realized he had lost track of Beregond. Never one to shirk his duty, the captain had busied himself with setting the camp. Faramir searched for him and found him not long later, speaking to Léowine. Mid-way through their conversation, Beregond started and the Ithilrochon reached a calming hand out to his shoulder. Beregond shook it off and stalked away with new purpose. Faramir went after him, but lost him amid the shuffle of the company and the sunset-dappled shadows of the trees.

"My lord," Mablung called a moment later. The Ranger appeared out of the crowd and came to Faramir. "My lord, the men are near out of their food. We cannot feed everyone this night at full ration."

"I'll not have my company march home hungry," said Faramir, shaking his head, "send five men into the city to obtain what provisions we need. Have them tell the merchants that I shall reimburse them personally if need be."

"Aye, my lord," said Mablung. He was about to leave when Faramir halted him.

"I seek Beregond. Have you seen him?"

"Not since we crossed the east bridge."

"Do you know what rest he has taken?"

Mablung paused, a peculiar look of thought upon his face. Slowly, he shook his head. "I had not noticed until now, but I cannot recall if he has had any since we left Minas Estel, though he insisted the rest of us take rest in turns."

Faramir nodded his thanks and, as Mablung left to tend to his duties, recommenced his search for his captain. It was near an hour later and the sun was almost set in the west when he found him. Beregond was tiredly issuing orders to the city healers who had come and seemed to have determined to stay near the wounded.

"Beregond, you should take some rest," said Faramir as he finally caught up with him.

The captain, however, took the conversation in another direction entirely, as if he had not heard the Steward at all. "My lord! I am told that Bergil rode to Minas Tirith to summon the Grey Company!"

"He did," Faramir answered, evenly.

"Léowine tells me he was attacked and wounded by one of the fell worms!"

"He was, but-"

"By your leave, my lord, I would ride to Minas Tirith at once."

"Nay," Faramir answered quickly, "at least not at once. You must take some rest before that."

"But, my lord-"

"I will hear no argument from you on this, Beregond; you have not slept in nearly three days, I am told. Bergil rode to save you. It would do him no good if you were to fall from your horse and be lost in the wood."

There was silence between the two men for a long moment as Faramir's words moved through Beregond's exhausted mind. The captain's eyes seemed to scream out the frustration he was no doubt feeling, then gave way to utter helplessness. Desperately, Beregond held back tears and he leaned against the nearest tree in weariness. Faramir put a steadying hand on his shoulder.

"He is my son," said Beregond, "I should be with him. I should have been there to protect him."

"Fear not," said Faramir, "I am told by the king that Bergil's wounds will have him abed for some days, but they will not kill him. And he is receiving the best of care in the White City. Rest. Ride to him in the morning. I shall look to the company in the meantime."

* * *

Some hours later, the Grey Company rode through the east gate of Cair Andros, King Elessar and Gimli at its head. Captain Inglor had been wounded and was carried on a horse before his lieutenant. Ghan rode his pony nearby them.

As they entered the city, Faramir was there to greet them with the lord of the city, Megildan, and his son, Belecthor, standing near. It was apparent to them that the result of the battle weighed heavily on them. Though the White Company had been rescued, Minas Morgul was now in the hands of Urlak and the Orkish races. Elessar and Faramir spoke long with Megildan that night and made plans for the defense of Ithilien. Though Minas Estel was well protected by the White Company, Cair Andros now needed reinforcement. Elessar pledged a measure of the Knights of Gondor to the task.

That night, as the stars shone between the trees above the camp's flickering fires, the two companies mingled and many tales of the battle were exchanged. Chief among them was the story of the Dwarf Ghan who charged to the defense of the fallen Captain Inglor and trampled no less than three Uruk-hai beneath his great shield and slew the first with his ax, even through the iron helm of the Uruk-hai. Thus it was that among the men of Gondor, Ghan was ever known as Ironax.

A tale was also told of a great battle between Elessar and Urlak. They had met on the battlefield and the Orkish king had issued a challenge. In due time, Andúril clashed with the Uruk-hai's hideous halberd. Men who saw it later said that though Elessar had looked small compared Urlak, still he shone the brighter and mightier of the two. At last, Andúril broke the Uruk-hai's halberd in two and Urlak was forced to run to his army for aid, ending the challenge in dishonor.

And yet, as wondrous as these tales of the battle were, there was behind them a great sense of loss and unease. Many had been lost and Minas Morgul was once again occupied by evil. All assembled at Cair Andros were aware of what the future was going to hold for by the end of the night, there was not a soldier in the camp who did not name the battle the First Battle of Minas Morgul.

* * *

Faramir spent most of that night in counsel with King Elessar. After speaking for long hours about the course of the battle and the circumstances that had led to it, several things were decided.

The first was that word needed to be sent to Edoras of the circumstances in Ithilien. Some of the northern reaches of the Moon-land boarded Rohan with only the great river to separate them. If war were to break out in all earnest, Éomer-king would need to look to that short spit of his eastern boarder.

A messenger was sent also to the Prince Legolas at Galenost. With the Orkish conquest of Minas Morgul, the Elven settlement was near to the paths that the Orcs would now frequent. Though Mablung's Rangers would do what they could from Henneth Annún, the Elves would have to fortify their new city.

The king decided to reinstate the garrison at Osgiliath which since the end of the War of the Ring had been disbanded in order to man other outposts to the south and north. The sight of the fell worm, Elessar said, had rattled him being so close to Minas Tirith; indeed, so far into the lands of Gondor. The Citadel of the Stars and its crossing were still too critical to leave its fate in the hands of other leaguers.

And finally, the Steward and the King gave thought to communication between Minas Tirith and Minas Estel. They had no doubt not that Urlak had devised his trap thinking that word would not reach the City of Kings. He had even acted to prevent just that by sending the fell worm after Glorlas and Bergil. The youths' skills as Rangers had been all that had saved both of them. Faramir was quick to praise the king's foresight in ordering Minas Estel to be built within sight of Minas Tirith. Their visibility to each other allowed for a visual signal. The beacon fires had worked well to save time in summoning the Riders of Rohan during the War of the Ring; there was no reason it could not be used in Ithilien.

The sun was risen by the time all these plans had been made and Faramir went out from the king's tent to find Beregond once again. The captain had evidently taken to the nearest empty cot he could find the night before for Faramir found him in a tent mere horse-lengths from where they had last spoken, near the tents of the healers. Faramir was loathe to rouse Beregond, for the captain slept deeply and looked exhausted still, but he would not hinder a father worried about his child. And so, he saw Beregond off mid-morning, riding over the western bridge of Cair Andros and into the land of Anórien.

* * *

Beregond rode hard throughout most of the day. He found the road that led around the tip of Ered Nimrais and followed it south. Amon Dín came into his view mid-afternoon and by the time the sun was setting, he entered the gates of Minas Tirith. He went at once to the sixth circle and quickly saw to his horse, then made for the Houses of Healing.

As he entered, he passed a noble who could not have been any older than he. His hair was graying already and his cloth was dyed a deep red that was generally reserved for persons of status. He moved with calm but strangely self-interested purpose.

Beregond cared not for protocol at the moment and stepped past the noble fleetly. But his way was blocked a moment later by the noble's hand and he saw that his face was twisted into impatient recognition.

"You are Beregond, son of Baranor, are you not?" he asked, his voice cold.

"I am," said Beregond, "is there-"

"Why are you in the White City?" the noble asked, anger now in his tone. "Certainly, the king has not reinstated you to the Citadel Guard!"

"Indeed he has not," said Beregond in confusion, "I remain Captain of the White Company. Forgive me, but I must go within. My son is-"

"You have no business in Minas Tirith, vile serpent!" snapped the noble, moving to block Beregond's way into the Houses.

"I beg pardon, sir," said Beregond, his patience wearing thin and his ire rising.

"Pardon! You are a slayer of your brothers-in-arms and you will receive no pardon from me!" The noble now braced himself in the doorway, glaring at the captain.

Finally, Beregond was at his wit's end. As his rage exploded forth, he grabbed the noble by his collar and pushed him against the post of the doorway.

"I know not who you are, nor do I care!" Beregond growled. "But you stand between me and my son who lies wounded within. By the Valar, if you do not move aside, I will move you one way or another!"

The noble shook free of Beregond's grasp and regained his feet, brushing his hands off on the captain's leather gambeson. Though shorter than Beregond by a great measure, he still managed to gaze down his nose at him in contempt.

"T'was my beloved cousin you slew at Fen Hollen," said the noble, "you should not have been allowed to remain in Gondor, let alone be made captain of a company of soldiers."

Beregond threw up his hands and turned away. He stalked into the Houses of Healing in a foul mood. As he went, he heard the noble shouting after him.

"This is not over, traitor! You will rue the day you crossed Maelrúth, Lord of Ethring!"

"As if I do not already," Beregond muttered to himself.

After that, it took him only a few minutes and an inquiry of a healer to locate Bergil's room in the Houses. He all but ran there, skidding to a halt when he reached the proper door.

His son lay within upon a low bed. Bergil was pale and his skin shone with sweat. One leg was leaden with splints, his left arm was bound to his side, and bandages were wrapped about his midriff tightly. He slumbered fitfully, seemingly unfeeling of his hurts.

Bergil was not alone in his room. As Beregond entered, he saw a young lady, not much older than Bergil and dressed in the brown habit of a healer's apprentice, lighting a hanging lamp to ward off the growing dark. Hearing Beregond, she turned to him and curtsied quickly.

"You are his father?" she asked. "You are Beregond?"

Beregond's resolved crumbled at seeing the plight of his son. His voice caught in his throat and he could do little more than nod in response to the young healer.

"Your son will heal, sir captain," she said, "exhaustion and the heat-fever took him as well as a wound the master healer named a spider bite. He has a broken leg and his arm was removed from its place in his shoulder, but both are in remarkably good condition, considering how far he went with them as they were. He needs but rest and time to heal."

"How long has he been like this?" Beregond managed to say, taking a few uncertain steps toward his son.

"He was brought to us two days ago," the healer replied, "in truth, he is already much improved."

Beregond nodded his understanding and placed his hands on the back of the small wooden chair next to the head of Bergil's bed. "If I could have some time?" he asked.

"Of course, sir captain," said the healer, and turned to leave.

"Wait," said Beregond, with an afterthought, "you have watched over him?"

"Yes."

"What is your name?"

"My name is Higethryth, sir captain."

"That is no Sindarin name."

"Nay. It is Rohirric. I hail from Edoras and have come to Minas Tirith for study in the healing arts. I wish to follow in the steps of the Lady Éowyn who herself studies healing."

"I thank you for your patient watch over my son, Higethryth of Edoras."

The healer acknowledged the thanks with a slight bow of her head and a gentle smile. "I take my leave. Good eve to you, sir captain."

As the young healer departed, Beregond took the seat by Bergil's bed. He clasped the youth's unbound hand in his and gently called his name. Bergil stirred, but did not awaken, so Beregond put his other hand upon Bergil's brow and pushed aside sweat-matted hair. He called Bergil's name once again and the youth's eyes opened and slowly focused upon him.

"Father?" he asked as if through a haze. "Am I dreaming?"

"No, lad," Beregond answered around forming tears and a mirthless laugh, "no dream, this time. It is I."

"You wanted me to stay in Minas Estel," Bergil murmured, "and I went forth anyway."

Beregond hushed him with a whisper and a hand upon his cheek. "No, no, you did well. Your message and your flight may have saved the company. I am proud of you."

"The worm frightened me."

"I know. Fear it no longer; it is slain."

"Are you leaving?"

"Nay, Bergil. I shall watch over you."

"I came through the Dawnless Day."

"I know."

With no more words between them, Bergil dropped off into slumber once again. This time, however, it was deep and peaceful. And there Beregond sat all that night, his son's hand clasped in his.

* * *

Three-hundred of the White Company had ridden forth from Minas Estel. Weeks later, near one-hundred of them lay at rest in Caras Faerath in the southern shadow of the city's greatest tower. Of the three battalions, Mablung's Rangers had taken the heaviest losses with nearly fifty of their number dead. And so, it was decided that it was time to graduate the first class of Emyn Arnen's Ranger-cadets. Twenty-nine received their first orders on the same day as the setting of the great tower's capstone. Among them and received in honor were Bergil and Glorlas who of the cadets had already risked much in defense of Ithilien.

All this happened a month after the mid-year in the Citadel of Minas Estel. Beregond handed out the commissions to the young Rangers, Mablung at his side calling the names. When Bergil's name was called, the youth came forward slowly, still hobbling upon a pair of wooden crutches. And at that moment, Beregond saw in his son's eyes that something had changed. There was new understanding and yet also something akin to pride, though not as presumptuous. In the space of a few short weeks, Bergil had grown.

Part of Beregond wept for that for his son's innocence he perceived to have come from his wife who had passed. And now, that too was gone. Yet there remained admiration in Bergil's eyes when he looked upon his father and Beregond found that it flattered him.

* * *

A great scaffold had thus far wrapped itself around Minas Estel's greatest tower. Most of the city had assembled to watch the ascent of the tower's capstone and the citadel was opened to them. Slowly, the copper-shod stone was dragged to the top by the Dwarves of Gimli's folk who had accompanied it. In the noon-time sun, it gleamed of metal fire, as if the sparks of the Dwarven hammers that had forged it were caught within. As it was placed, a great cheer arose from the crowd. Finally, Minas Estel's full height was achieved; near four-hundred feet from the base of the mountain to the tip of that capstone. Though it did not rival Minas Tirith and the height of the Tower of Ecthelion, still it was a marvel to behold.

Standing before the assembled crowd, Faramir waited for their cheers to calm. In his hand was the White Rod of the Stewards and standing near was Éowyn, though she did not take his hand.

"This day," said Faramir to the crowd, "with the laying of this stone, we men of Gondor and our brothers from Rohan declare that we are all men of Ithilien. This city stands as a declaration to all of Middle-earth; the time of men has come and we shall dwell here as long as this great tower stands. Already we have purchased Minas Estel's defense with the blood of our own. Man have already fallen to save Ithilien. And not only men, but others stand with us; Dwarves and Elves. Let it be known to any who would raise their sword against us; Ithilien does not stand alone."

Here the crowd cheered and a cry came from the Dwarves high atop the tower.

"_Baruk khazad_! _Khazad ai menu_!"

Faramir was glad of the pause this gave him for once again, something whispered in his mind. He saw again shadow to the east, but there was also light in Ithilien. Finally, the crowd quieted again and Faramir found his voice.

"Let it be known in the farthest reaches of Eä! The light begins here!"

As always, thanks go out to everyone for their encouraging words. Thanks especially to Raksha the Demon for the mini-Nuzgúl about spiders and French Pony for being my sounding board.

Here's some translation notes;

Leithio goe lín. Garo post a nesto. "Release your fear. Have rest and heal."

Urlak bhosh zurlug! Urlak bhosh zurlug! Has no translation. Followed what I could find of patterns Tolkien himself established for Orkish; in other words, total gibberish.

Baruk khazad! Khazad ai menu! Dwarven battle cry lifted from the books.

Galborn – one of the Ranger-cadets. Sindarin meaning "red light."

Fréodgyth – the name of Faramir and Éowyn's third child and first daughter. From the Old English word "fréod" meaning "friend" and a feminine name suffix.

Glorlas – one of the Ranger-cadets. Sindarin meaning "gold leaf."

Megildan – Lord of Cair Andros. Sindarin meaning "sword-wright."

Maelrúth – the name of the noble that Beregond ran into. Sindarin with a meaning I don't want to give away just yet. Needless to say, if he was an Elf, this would be his mother-given name.

Higethryth – the name of the young healer in Minas Tirith. From the Old English word "hige" meaning "thinking" and a feminine name suffix.

And, as always, a hint for the next chapter; old friends return from western lands.

_Bado na sídh_.

Berz.


	4. The Council of the King

The Chronicles of Ithilien

By Berzerker_prime

Chapter Four: The Council of the King

Far to the west of the gleaming white Tower of Ecthelion, far west of the lands of Gondor and Rohan, beyond the Misty Mountains and the valley of Imladris, father west, even, than the ruins of Amon Súl, lay the tiny, unkempt village of Bree. Its streets were made of foot-sucking mud and there was no building taller than three stories. Wood held up most of the town's walls, although there was the rare construct of dull, grey stone.

Day had long since fled the land and now the village stood in the dark, flickering light from candles and lamps shining through the many windows. The brightest of these lights came from the windows of a small inn on a corner known as the Prancing Pony. In the parlor within milled about a curious mix of Men and Hobbits, sharing food and ale and conversation.

The Prancing Pony's old proprietor, Barliman Butterbur, had long since retired. But three years prior he had sold the inn to an enterprising young Hobbit, named Alton Goodbarrel, from a family of ale brewers. The Hobbit had grown up in Bree and the Pony had always been one of his favorite places. In his tweens, he had spent considerable time doing odd jobs for old Butterbur and when the old man had begun to speak of retiring, Alton saved every piece of the stipend he received from his family to buy the inn. It had taken nearly five years, but he had managed to scrape together enough money to save it and on his thirty-third birthday he had bought it and proclaimed it his gift to the village at large, vowing that nothing about it would change.

This spring night, as he did nearly every night, Alton stood behind the bar upon a stool, chatting with patrons and filling glasses. Not a single person entered or left the parlor that he did not notice from his vantage point and each was greeted or bid a good night with a smile.

Observing people was a skill he had learned in the last three years. He had had to learn it quickly as an inn was a place where all sorts of people were always coming and going. For now, Alton had picked out a group of three men sitting around a table in a dark corner, speaking low to each other and avoiding all others. All three sat with their backs to the wall and watched the room carefully. This was curious behavior for anyone sitting in the Pony's parlor, so Alton watched them more closely as the night wore on. Soon, he noted that they seemed to pay extra attention to Hobbits who would enter or leave. But they never seemed to see who they were looking for.

Eventually, the inn's patrons all began to filter out of the parlor and take their leave or take to their own rooms for the night, one by one. The three men followed in kind, leaving almost last.

"Good evenin' to you, good sirs," said Alton as they sauntered past, "if you care to leave a message for whoever you're waitin' for, I'd be glad to take it."

"No, no message," said the last of the three, "but if the sons of the Master and the Thain arrive, please inform us."

"What, Master Merry and Master Pippin?" said Alton in surprise. "They haven't been around in Bree for near two years, now. And I haven't heard tell of their comin' at all."

"Just tell us if they come," said the man. And with nothing further, they departed and went to their rooms upstairs.

Alton shook his head in puzzlement and went back to his tasks. When the last of the patrons had left the parlor for the night, he doused all the lamps and made his tired way to his own room. With a yawn, he entered and closed the door, but nearly yelped when two sets of eyes greeted his as it swung shut. They belonged to no less than Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took, looking careworn and wearied of the road. Around their shoulders, each wore a green cloak clasped at the throat by a pin fashioned in the shape of a green leaf with silver veins. Alton had seen them wearing these matching cloaks before and it always seemed a curious thing to him that his eyes wanted to slide off the fabric and look to other things. They both had large packs for travel and dangling from their belts were short swords, which Alton had never seen them carrying before. Merry had a gold-clad horn, also.

"What in Middle-earth!" Alton exclaimed as he took all of this in.

Merry and Pippin immediately hushed him, quite urgently putting their hands over his mouth.

"Sorry for the scare, lad," said Merry, "but we've had to sneak in, I'm afraid."

Alton nodded his understanding and Merry and Pippin backed off.

"You gave me a start, is all," Alton said, keeping his voice low, "there are three strange men looking for you. They have rooms upstairs."

"Well, that's why we had to sneak in," said Pippin, "those men aren't too keen on us gettin' where we need to go. They've been on our trail since Buckland!"

"Rangers!" Alton said. "Only Rangers could track two Hobbits all the way here! Heavens! What trouble brews in Bree?"

"None we don't bring ourselves, I'm afraid," said Merry padding across the room to peer out the window.

"There's trouble in the Shire," Pippin explained, "and we simply must reach Gondor with word of it."

"We need your help, Alton, if you can give it," said Merry.

"Of course I'll give you what help I can, if it means aiding the Hobbits of the Shire," said Alton, "the Pony is always open to you. But surely you don't want to be hidin' in the same place where the people following you are sleepin'!"

"We don't want you to hide us," said Pippin with a shake of his head.

"We need your help to get out of Bree," Merry explained, "those Rangers won't leave until they think we're gone, anyway. If we try to hide here, they'll find us, soon."

"Help you avoid the Rangers? But they're the King's Men!"

"No," said Pippin, "not these men. The King doesn't know what they're up to."

"Which is why we need to get to Gondor," Merry added, "people could die if we don't make it."

"Oh, heavens!" said Alton. "This is a big lot for a simple inn-keeper and ale-brewer! But, if my help is needed, you'll have it and no mistake! I think I have an idea."

* * *

The early light of the next day found Alton packing a wagon with straw. A stack of small barrels was nearby and Alton's sturdy carthorse, Tim, was tethered to a post, calmly grazing on some of the straw. The Hobbit hummed as he worked and it soon caught the ear of the Rangers whose rooms were just above. One of them leaned out the window and called down to him.

"Ah! Good morning to you, kind sir!" Alton greeted back. "Still no word of Master Merry or Master Pippin, I'm afraid. I've passed it on to Bob and Nob that you're lookin' for 'em, though."

"Bob and Nob? But where shall you be?"

Alton rapped his knuckles against the top of one of the wooden barrels. "I've gotta be takin' these back to Milo Sandheaver in Archet. Best brew in the Bree-land, next to my own of course, but he's particular about gettin' his barrels back."

"I see," said the Ranger, "well, then I'd best be leaving you to it then." With that, the Ranger ducked back inside. But, a moment, later, he called down to Alton again. "Master Goodbarrel, that is a tall cart for a Hobbit. How, pray-tell, were you going to get those barrels loaded?"

"Well, I usually have help," said Alton, "but I couldn't find anyone this early and I have to be gettin' on the road. I'll manage it."

"Wait a moment there and I'll help you," said the Ranger.

"Oh, I can't have a guest-"

"No, no, I insist on it!"

Before Alton could say anything further, the Ranger darted back into the window and disappeared again. Alton cast a worried look at his pile of straw, then piled a bit more on top.

"Oh, Alton, what have you gotten tangled up in?" he muttered to himself, "this'll never fool 'em. Not Rangers, that's for certain."

The Ranger then came out of the door and strode Alton's direction. "It looks to me as though you have more than enough straw in the cart."

"Oh, yes, I was just about to start the loading."

"Please, allow me," said the Ranger, stooping to pick up two of the barrels, one in each arm. He carried them to the wagon and stepped up with them. He kicked his feet through the straw as he went to the back end and deposited them near the seat. He looked puzzled for a moment, then shook his head with a smile and went back for two more barrels.

Alton watched, holding his breath every time the Ranger climbed into the cart. He stood there, rooted to his spot, waiting for the trouble to come.

But it never did and it was with a shock when Alton realized that the Ranger had loaded the last two barrels and climbed back out of the wagon.

"There you are," said the Ranger, "fourteen barrels all loaded and ready to go." There was a change in the Ranger's voice, now. It was somehow freer; looser, Alton thought.

"Oh, and much faster than ever I could have done on my own!" said Alton. "Thank you kindly! All that's left is to hitch up old Tim." He went over to the horse and led him to the front of the cart. "It's a day to Archet and a day back," he continued chatting as he worked, "and I've got a day's worth of business there besides. So, I suspect you'll have gone by the time I'm back. So, I'll bid you safe journey, wherever your travelin' takes you. Do return soon. The King's men are always welcome at the Prancing Pony."

"We shall, of course, return," said the Ranger, "and a safe journey to you as well, Master Goodbarrel."

With a wave, the Ranger went back inside the inn as Alton climbed up into the seat of the wagon. He took up the horse's reins and urged him onward. A few minutes later and the cart passed through the hedge of the east-gate and was on the road to Archet in the east. Once the village was well out of sight, he brought the horse and wagon to a halt and climbed into the back. He pushed aside some of the barrels and knocked on the wagon's floor.

"It should be clear now," he said.

A part of the floor suddenly swung upward and open and Merry and Pippin popped out of the small box that was hidden below.

"That was close," Alton said to them, "I thought for certain that Ranger would hear the hollow spot!"

"Except that it wasn't so hollow!" Pippin exclaimed, poking Merry in the gut. "One of us has put on a few stones, lately!"

"Certainly not me, Pip!" said Merry. "You should look to your own waistline first! At least it worked, though."

"Yes! Who'd ever have thought we'd be thankful for old Bill Ferny's wily tricks," said Pippin, "I wonder what he carried around in that box before he got all in a hurry to sell the wagon to your father, Alton."

The innkeeper laughed. "I'd think we wouldn't want to know! Now, which way do we make for, lads? Do we go to the Elves in Rivendell?"

Merry and Pippin sobered at once and looked at each other puzzled.

"What do you mean 'we'?" Pippin asked.

"I'm going with you, of course," said Alton, "if those Rangers haven't figured out our little trick yet, they surely will by the time I come back in three days. They won't have your tracks to follow, since you're not leavin' any. And no one else is plannin' to leave Bree for at least a week, near as I can figure."

"That's true," said Merry, "and if you go back to Bree, there's no telling what those men will do."

"Besides that," Alton added, "there's no way I'm just going to leave all this as it stands now. I'm involved, after all. And I've always wanted to see what was away in the south."

"Aha!" Pippin exclaimed. "The truth is out! Hear that, Merry? Alton's got a bit of the Tookish nature in him!"

"And it is safer if he comes along," Merry agreed, "all right, then, Alton. I hope you're ready to meet the heroes of the War of the Ring."

* * *

The summer sun rose early and set late. In Ithilien, in the year following the first Battle of Minas Morgul, this meant that the Orcs were not abroad as much. But still, the Rangers posted to Henneth Annún had much to contend with and the days following midsummer meant that the dangerous nights were growing longer.

Mablung dearly loved Henneth Annún. Not only was it a valued refuge, but it held a great deal of beauty as well. The way the setting sun would shine through the waterfall at evening often times simply took his breath away. He would find himself stealing glances at it as often as he could. The refuge was also a place of community for the Rangers, where they could relax and be comrades rather than soldiers for but a few hours. He had spent a great deal of time there, in dark days and bright, and to Mablung it was a second home.

It was near to nightfall now as Mablung climbed the stair and came out atop the ridge of rock that overlooked the falls. But the day was grey and clouds covered the sky; there would be no golden sunset this night. The air was strangely still and silent and Mablung could feel an odd dread in the air and welling up within him. He turned to look at even the slightest of noises in the wood and more than once he put his hand to his long bow. It was little more than instinct, but somehow he was certain that something was going to happen soon.

Mablung sat and watched the light wane, growing more and more agitated as the time drew on. Finally, the fragile calm was shattered somewhere behind him by the short, sharp snap of a twig. He whirled around and stood, drawing his sword, ready for a fight. But he found there only Bergil, equally as surprised by the commander's reaction. Mablung allowed himself a moment of wonder at the youth's stealth and was pleased that his instruction had so well taken root.

Bergil had been among the second group of the younger Rangers to be posted to Henneth Annún. Fifteen of them were under Mablung's command for the time being, all of them looking to win their spurs in defense of Gondor. Of course, some of them had had more of a chance to prove themselves than others. Tradition among the Rangers divided new recruits into two groups; those who seemed to attract battle, called the black clouds, and those who seemed charmed to avoid it, called the white clouds. The son of Beregond had proven to be a very white cloud indeed. Always he would miss battle by only a watch-shift or would be on patrol when but a handful of Orcs were about. Other Rangers, the older ones, began to rejoice in seeing him among their numbers for they believed that it would mean no trouble would befall them.

The young Ranger, however, was beginning to chafe at this. Already he was but two weeks from the end of his posting and he was soon to return to Minas Estel for leave, yet he did not feel as if he had done his part.

From Mablung's perspective, it was good that Bergil had attracted so little of the fighting they had been doing. He did not relish the thought of bringing the youth home to his father wounded or worse. But Bergil had begun to volunteer for more and more patrols and it was getting harder for Mablung to deny him his chance.

But, for now, the youth seemed a little flustered as he looked in dismay and alarm at the tip of Mablung's sword. The commander breathed a sigh of relief and lowered it, slowly.

"Commander, have I done something..." Bergil said, and then trailed off in uncertainty.

"No, only proven your training to your overly excitable teacher," Mablung replied, "what is it?"

"The afternoon patrol has returned, sir," said Bergil, "and the men are wondering who will be assigned to the one for the night."

"Are they then? And should I take a guess as to who is most interested in joining the patrol?"

"Well..."

"Of course you are," Mablung said with a laugh and a shake of his head, "all right, Bergil, you may accompany the night patrol. Tell Lieutenant Cristfaron to assemble a company of fifty. I shall lead the patrol this night."

"Aye, commander," said Bergil. He almost began his descent back into the refuge, but halted and turned back to Mablung in confusion. "Fifty sir?"

"Fifty," Mablung confirmed.

"Why so many?"

Mablung paused for a moment, casting his gaze westward at the grey skies where, for all the world, he felt there should be a sun setting over the green trees. He let the question hang in the air for a long moment, considering his answer.

"Instinct," he said at last, and left it at that.

* * *

The light grew dim in due time and day faded into night. The clouds chose never to part and show the stars or the Moon above them, turning the night even darker and more distressing. Stranger still was the almost total lack of wind. The air was stifling and the white banners of the Steward, high atop the towers of Minas Estel, hung in their places without so much as a ripple.

As the night drew on, the lamps in the windows of the city of hope went out one by one. But there was one stubborn light in the west tower of the House of the Prince that remained lit hours after all the others.

Faramir was standing at his desk in his study, bent over a large map of northern Ithilien. It was bounded on its southward side by Emyn Arnen and on its east by the walls of Ephel Dúath with Minas Morgul nestled in a corner. In the north, it stretched as far as the Nindalf marshes and the very edges of the low hills known as the Noman-lands. Though it was not on the map, Faramir knew the place where Henneth Annún was hidden and ten miles north and west of that laid the Elven city of Galenost.

A series of small red beads had been placed on this map, each one representing the position reported by the stack of missives at the corner of the desk; the position of an Orkish camp or attack or sighting. There were many in the north, arcing westward and stopping halfway to the Andúin. More, and the more worrisome, hugged the small space between the Harad Road and the Ephel Dúath, stopping at the Crossroads. Faramir had come to know this garrisoned road as the Orkish supply line out of the Morannon. Every day that passed saw a strengthening of their positions.

Strangely enough, it was a strategy Faramir himself might have used if he had found himself in the Orc-king's position. Urlak had gained a foothold west of Mordor in Minas Morgul and had worked to strengthen it. From there, it would be possible to strike at the rest of Ithilien in due time. It was a patient strategy, one that should not have belonged to an Orkish campaign and that, more than anything, worried Faramir greatly. More and more he felt as though he was facing an unknown enemy, beyond the Orc-king Urlak. And yet, he could not conceive of who that might be.

"Faramir," Éowyn's voice floated to him from the doorway, "it is late. Come to bed."

The Steward sighed heavily, still leaning over the map. He did not turn to her as he heard her footsteps approach. "Sleep has become somewhat elusive these days," he said.

Her hand reached his shoulder and Faramir found himself reaching back for it. "You are tense," she said, "leave your maps behind for a time. They will still be there in the morning, when you are fresh."

"Yes, yes they will be," Faramir admitted, not without a certain amount of chagrin, "the Orcs will not move from these spots unless we are able to force them to."

"But you predicted this was how they were going to act a year ago, did you not?" Éowyn asked. "So far, they have done nothing unexpected. Yet all of this is troubling you."

Faramir shook his head and leaned away from her, sweeping the beads from the map into a box and rolling the map tightly in his hand. "No, it's nothing," he said, "I would simply like to see them leave Ithilien. But things are well in hand for the time being."

Finally, he turned to look at her, a smile placed carefully on his face. But she had backed away from him, a frightened look on her features. Faramir's smile vanished and they stared at each other for some silent moments.

"Faramir, what aren't you telling me?" Éowyn finally asked.

"It is nothing for you to worry about," said Faramir, "the Orcs will be dealt with."

"Why will you not speak to me?"

"I speak to you now, Éowyn," Faramir said, and he found that his tone had turned defensive.

"Not as you should," she replied with hostility, "not as you once did. There is a gulf between us and it widens day by day."

"You know no less about the Orcs' advance than I do. I have kept no secrets from you. I could never put you or the children in danger, Éowyn, you know that."

"Danger is not what concerns me, Faramir."

"Then what is it that has you so cross? Of late you have been perplexing at best. Nothing I say to you calms you and yet you push some elusive argument that I cannot see."

"That is precisely why I am so wrath with you."

"You are speaking in riddles!"

"That is an ironic statement, coming from you," Éowyn said, her voice low with anger. She turned away from him and made her way to the door. "Spend the rest of the night with your maps, if you wish. I care not."

"Éowyn," Faramir called after her, in exasperation. But she was gone before he could say anything further. The map of northern Ithilien was still in his hand and he tossed it down on his desk in frustration. Feeling the beginnings of a headache forming in his temples, he sat down in his chair, a hand to his chin in distressed thought. His eyes found the flickering flame of his lamp and he sat there, watching it, until it finally went out and all the company he had after was the silent, cold air outside his window.

* * *

That same cold, stagnant air surrounded the Rangers of Ithilien as they marched on their patrol, moving northward of Henneth Annún. The footfalls of fifty soldiers made for little stealth, but Mablung was still convinced they would be needed. Yet he still could not say why he thought thus. They had been marching on their course for several hours, now, and nothing had happened as yet. Mablung sent scouts ahead of them and in several directions around them as they went and each of them would report back the same thing; no new movement, no sign of an enemy attack.

Still, the Rangers moved northward and the woods of Ithilien soon gave way to the scattered scrub at the edge of the Noman-lands. The trees grew smaller and grass took the place of the underbrush. They had reached the edge of the woods and rolling hills of grass stretched out before them. This was the northern-most reach of their patrol and Mablung called the company to a halt, ordering a few moments' rest while they awaited the return of their last scouts.

Mablung leaned his back against a tree at the very edge of the woods, the largest near the company, and looked out across the grasses. It was silent and still and he could hear nothing drift to his ears across their great expanse. He felt strangely exposed and only the wide tree trunk at his back gave him any comfort. He could not rid himself of the feeling that eyes were upon him.

And then, the silence was broken by a shouting voice from the hills before him. A lone figure came toward them, running; one of his scouts, the one he had sent north east.

"_Yrch_! _Yrch_!" he shouted in the Elvish tongue, the language the Rangers used when they did not want their enemies to know their news. "_Tól dagor_! _Tól dagor anyrch_!"

"Ready your bows!" Mablung shouted to his men. "Form a line on the grass, quickly!"

Some of the Rangers, the older ones who had lived through such patrols during the War of the Ring, were already in motion before Mablung even had a chance to speak. The younger ones, Bergil among them, fell into the line alongside them, forming two lines of twenty-five. Every Ranger knocked a green-fletched arrow and watched the hill the scout had come from. The scout made it back behind the line, gasping for breath, just as their enemy crested the hill.

"How many?" Mablung asked the scout.

"A great many," the scout answered, "I had not the time to count."

"Stand ready to fight."

"Aye."

Mablung stood behind the center of the Ranger's small formation, which had formed closer to the trees than the commander had intended. He had hoped for more space to fight before they would be forced to retreat into the trees.

The Orcs, their dark forms solid against the foggy clouds of the sky, began their march towards the Rangers. Numbers upon numbers passed over the hill and Mablung realized with dismay that they had the high ground. If they had archers, they would fire soon.

As if in answer to his thought, he heard the whistle of an arrow approach from the sky. One of the Rangers in the front line stepped back a foot, surprised by a noise near his feet. It was soon followed by more arrows on the air and two of the Rangers on the right end cried out and stumbled back.

"They're going to pick us off," one of the younger Rangers shouted, "we should be retreating!"

"Not until the commander gives the order," Mablung heard Bergil's voice answer him, "hold your ground or I'll shoot you myself!"

"Enough noise!" Mablung yelled at them. "All archers stand ready!"

More arrows whistled through the air and three more of the Rangers went down. Still the Orcs marched on them and still Mablung waited, his eyes fixed on the advancing line.

"Release!" he finally shouted and the Rangers gleefully obeyed. This time, it was their own arrows that hummed as they flew. A moment later, he heard several Orkish howls of pain rise from the opposing line. Some went down, but more took their places. "_Leithio ad_! _Penio megil lín_! _An in yrch_!"

The Rangers let loose their second volley, and then set their bows aside in favor of drawing their swords. At a signal from Mablung, they charged forward toward the advancing Orcs. The Orcs obliged the move, answering it in kind. The two lines met in a clash of metal and a mass of voices fair and foul alike.

Mablung found himself on an upward climb in short order. Very quickly, there were more Orcs than Men near him. He charged ahead, his sword point trailing behind him. The first Orc he came to fell to a vicious rising cut. The next Orc came at him from his right and Mablung turned, pushing his sword point at the Orc's chest. The blade glanced off the Orc's armor with a mocking ring and the beast counter-attacked with a strike from above. Half in panicked reflex, Mablung managed to get his sword in place to block it above his head and immediately moved to control steel, swinging around and toward the ground to his left. The Orc pulled back and recovered quickly, preparing for another strike, but Mablung moved first, striking the blade aside with a rising cut and swinging around into a horizontal cut which finally ended the Orc.

The line of Rangers did not advance any farther than the place where the lines first met. Any time Mablung gained ground, he found himself giving it back only a moment later. Soon he was retreating all the time, the trees of the woods growing nearer with every Orc he managed to defeat. Quick glances at his compatriots informed him that they were doing the same. And still, for every Orc killed in the battle, three more seemed to take its place. Suddenly, Mablung found other Rangers at his back, huddled closely.

"Commander, we're surrounded!" one of them said, terror in his voice.

"Hold firm!" Mablung shouted, putting the blade of his sword in his gauntlet-covered left hand. He took a defensive stance with his left foot forward and his sword held horizontally before him. The first Orc to come at him struck from above and Mablung blocked with his sword held high, stepping in. Quickly, the commander snaked the tip of his sword down, under the Orc's right arm. He grabbed it again behind the Orc's back, pushing up on his tip and down on his hilt. The Orc pitched over forward as Mablung stepped aside and then there was a horrible crack as its arm came free of its shoulder. Wailing, the Orc fell to the ground, sliding off of Mablung's sword. The Ranger stabbed it through the back of the neck a moment later.

The small victory cost him, though, as Mablung suddenly found himself flying to the side. He felt as though he had been struck by a boulder and nearly lost his grip on his sword. The Orc that had bull-rushed him wasted no time and struck from Mablung's left. His knees were shaking as he did it, but he managed to get his sword around in time, catching the Orkish blade with an awkward twist of his cross piece. He pushed it up and around, over both their heads, and pushed with his knees until they were mere inches apart. Staring the foul beast in the eye for but a moment, Mablung reached in his belt for his dagger and drew it with his left hand, moving to strike at the vulnerable spot in the Orc's armor beneath the arm. But the Orc grabbed his wrist. They stood there, blades locked together and off-weapon arms grappling for their very lives. The Orc began to bear down on Mablung and the Ranger began to lose his leverage. He was at the very edge of his strength when an arrow appeared in the Orc's forehead. Not the green fletching of one of his men, but the light golden brown of the Galenost Elves. Mablung shook himself free of his dead opponent and looked around him as a man who had faced his executioner and been inexplicably pardoned.

One by one, the Orcs began to fall under a hail of arrows from the west. There, upon a second ridge, just outside the tree line, Mablung could see a formation of Elven archers, firing their keen arrows into the fray. From out of their midst a force of pike-wielding footmen charged, their weapons braced for the attack. At their head was an Elven woman holding a spear with two blades along its haft.

"Hadoriel spear-thrower!" one of the Rangers shouted. "The Galenrim send aid!"

"Regroup!" Mablung shouted, quickly shaking off his bewilderment. "Fight through, Rangers of Ithilien! To the Elves!"

A cheer went up from the Rangers, followed by several different battle cries. Quickly, the Orcs found themselves pressed between the Men and the Elves with a rain of arrows falling upon them constantly. Soon, their numbers were split north and south and in blind confusion the Orcs began to move eastward to regroup, allowing the two kindred of Ilúvatar to meet.

"Commander Mablung!" Hadoriel's voice reached the Ranger's ears. She appeared out of her forces a moment later. "Valithar and his archers are upon the western ridge. We cannot lose their cover!"

"I understand," said Mablung, "Rangers! _Maetho in yrch anrún_!"

"_Edhil in ech_, _aphado_!" Hadoriel shouted in kind.

Cheers in Westron and Elvish went up from the combined forces of Ithilien and their weapons were brandished toward the east where the Orcs were regrouping. As a single unit, they charged ahead, shrieking war cries. A horn sounded from the mass of Orcs and as one they turned and fled under the onslaught. At that, the Ithilien charge lost its taste for blood and Mablung and Hadoriel called them to a halt.

"My thanks to you, captain," Mablung said to the Elf, "if you and your pike-men had not come, all of us would have been lost."

"Nay, t'is I should be thanking you," answered Hadoriel, "we have been tracking that band of Orcs for two days. We may not have wiped them out, but at least they have shown us where they are. We can now put our guard on the proper leaguer."

"Commander!" Mablung heard Bergil's voice drift to him from out of the post-battle confusion. The youth pushed his way through a moment later. He was covered in grime and blood oozed from a cut in the middle of a forming bruise on his cheek. "Six of our men are dead. Thirteen more are wounded badly. They will die if they do not receive aid quickly."

"How far is Henneth Annún?" Hadoriel asked.

"Six leagues from here," Mablung answered.

"Galenost is but a league away. Your wounded will be well cared-for in the green city."

Mablung nodded his assent. "It is a kind offer. I thank you."

* * *

The dawn hours in the Citadel of Minas Tirith were typically the quietest. Even those who habitually remained awake well into the night were asleep and those who rose early were usually just rolling over to steal an extra few minutes of dozing. As such, the Citadel was quiet as a far-removed field. Not even the Citadel Guard moved about or spoke to each other much, for fear of breaking the silence.

This was the watch shift that one particular member of the Guard hated most. It was boring and he was always frightfully hungry by the time it ended. At only sixteen years, he was by far the youngest of the current Citadel Guard. In fact, most suspected he was the youngest Citadel Guard ever commissioned. He had come to the position by way of his father who had held it before him, but who had suddenly fallen over in the middle of a watch shift and died for no reason that any of them could fathom. His mother and elder brothers, in an attempt to cure him of a serious case of sloth, had gone to the watch commanders and asked that the lad be allowed to take his father's place. The third son of the family, he had been saddled with the ungracious and clumsy-sounding name of Nindcabor. The rest of the guard felt foolish trying to frame it and so had taken to simply calling him "Junior."

And so it was that Nindcabor found himself wearing the Tree and Stars and standing to one side of the tunnel that led into the Citadel, on the dawn shift. He had been standing there for hours already and more than once his stomach had protested the lack of food in the meantime. The time had crawled by as if it had been days and finally, he did not care who heard the long yawn that he finally let loose.

"By the Valar, will this watch ever end?" he asked no one in particular.

The Guard standing opposite him, on the other side of the tunnel, let out a chuckle. "Don't worry, Junior," he said, "you'll be able to fill your belly soon enough. The first bell will ring any moment."

"I certainly hope so," he said, "the dawn watch shift is frightfully boring. Nothing ever happens."

As he said this, the bell tower in the sixth circle rang out the first bell. From the buttery beneath the Tower of Ecthelion, a number of sleepy-eyed Guards slowly strolled out to relieve their comrades.

"There, you see?" said Nindcabor's elder compatriot. "No time at all."

"Finally!" Junior said, making his way to the buttery as fast as he could without making a scene. "Time for a little breakfast, and then some sleep."

"Don't you do anything else between your shifts?"

"Oh leave Junior be," said another of the Guard as he and a few others came to join them, "after eating, he doesn't have much energy left for other things. Have you seen him eat? I don't advise letting your hand get too close. You might lose it!"

The rest of the Guard laughed as they all went down into the buttery. Junior was the first to the tables, piling a plate with cold meats and bread and taking an extra apple for good measure. He took the nearest seat and began shoveling it into his mouth. He was only about half way through his meal when his watch commander came in and halted at the door.

"Nindcabor, son of Nauralagos!" he announced.

Startled, and still in the middle of a bite of his meal, Junior stood. "Sir!" he exclaimed around his full mouth.

"Come with me," said the watch commander.

"Yes, sir," said Junior, looking at his half-full plate of food mournfully. He grabbed one last piece of bread and shoved it in his mouth as he hastened across the room and up the stairs, following the watch commander.

The elder Guard said nothing to Junior as they crossed the stone-covered grounds of the Citadel. But after only a few moments, Junior came to realize that the commander was leading him toward the entrance to the House of the King. With sudden trepidation, he swallowed his last bite of bread.

"Commander, have I done something to displease you?" he asked.

"No, you've done nothing," said the commander, "and that is something upon which we will speak later. But for now, you have business within."

"Within... in the King's House?"

"Yes," said the watch commander as they came to the doors. He pulled one of them open and ushered Nindcabor inside. "For reasons that pass my understanding, the King has asked to speak with you."

"The... the King has?"

"Yes. So stop playing the part of an echo and behave yourself."

Of late, Nindcabor had come to have a mighty opinion of himself. After all, here he was only sixteen years old and already a member of the Citadel Guard without having done any work to gain the rank. Now, as he walked into the vast main entry way of the King's House, that image of himself shrank very rapidly. Three large windows on the east face of the building let the first rays of morning light spill into the room. In that light, Junior could see carvings and inlays of stone surrounding him on the walls and decorating the rails of the vast staircase that spiraled down from the second floor and spilled out on the west end of the room. In the center of the floor, a circle of black stone had been set among the white as the backdrop for an inlay of the Tree and Stars. So mesmerized by the room was the young Guard that he hardly noticed the figure descending the stairs before him.

"My lord Elessar," said the watch commander dropping to a knee and pulling Junior down with him, "as you requested, Nindcabor, son of Nauralagos, of the Citadel Guard."

"Ah yes," said the king with satisfaction, "please rise, both of you. Thank you, commander. That will be all. Please see that no one enters until we are finished."

"Yes, my liege," said the commander. He then went out of the King's House the way he and Nindcabor had come, closing the door on his way. Nindcabor watched him go and for a brief moment, he considered fleeing after him.

"Well, then" said Elessar after a few short moments of silence, "you are the youngest of the Citadel Guard; the one they call Junior. Yes?"

"Y... yes, my lord," Nindcabor stammered out, "my lord, I hope I have not offended-"

"Calm yourself, lad. You are not here for a scolding."

Junior blinked, stupidly, and searched his mind for a suitable reply for a long moment. "I'm not?" was the only thing he could come up with.

"No," said Elessar, kindly, "on the contrary. I have two things that I need to have done and I must have them done quickly and without questions. Can you do this?"

"If my king commands it, I will, of course, do what I can."

"Can you do it without being questioned?"

"Well, my lord, I find that the other Citadel Guards take little note of me. And I can blend into the men of the rest of the city well enough. Is that what my king means?"

Elessar smiled. "You understand, then. This would seem to trouble you, however."

Junior shifted, uncomfortably. "I'm afraid, my lord, that they believe me to be something of a fool."

"Ah, but that means that you may hide in plain sight," said Elessar, "it is a skill many men I know would pay dearly to have. You should use it while you are gifted with it. And in this case, it is precisely that ability that I need."

"Then, I shall do as my king commands," said Junior, suddenly feeling rather more pleased with himself.

Elessar pulled a tightly rolled and sealed scroll and a small piece of paper from a pocket and handed them both to Nindcabor. "Then your tasks are these. First, that scroll must find its way into the hands of Prince Faramir in Ithilien. But no one can know that I have sent it, so I cannot send it with any of the royal messengers. Second, I need the items on that list collected."

"My elder brother owns a trade convoy that makes weekly trips to Minas Estel," said Junior, "I'm certain I can have the message sent with him this very day, my lord." Then, he took a moment to quickly read over the list. "Boys' clothing, my lord? But, these would be too large for his lordship, the Prince Eldarion. And, forgive me, but what is Longbottom Leaf?"

"There is an herbalist in the Third Circle," said Elessar, "you may inquire there. Mention that you have heard that the best is grown by one named Paladin. The herbalist will give you what you seek. As for the rest, perhaps I will be able to tell you later. For now, I simply need them collected."

"And... the three ponies, lord?"

"Oh, yes. Bring them to the stables in the sixth circle and tell the stable master that their housing will be provided for. But do not mention by whom." He handed the youth several gold coins. "Give him these as his first payment."

"Aye, my lord."

"Good, then. And remember; you must tell no one what you are doing. Attract no attention. Do not even mention that you are on an errand for me. Is that clear?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Then go."

Nindcabor tucked the scroll and the list into a pocket inside his tabard and gave a short bow. His head spun with confusion and possibilities as he walked from the hall. As soon as he walked outside and the door closed behind him, he leaned up against it and sighed in relief. Then, remembering the two guards to either side, he quickly collected himself and walked away to his task.

"Poor lad," said one of the guards after he was out of earshot, "a scolding, no doubt. He looked more than a little flustered."

"Pay it no mind," said the other, "perhaps now he will take his duties more seriously, with the King himself looking over his shoulder."

* * *

North of Cair Andros and west of Henneth Annún laid the Elven settlement of Galenost, the green city. The Rangers of Ithilien, along with their companions from the ranks of Hadoriel's pike men and Valithar's bowmen, approached the burgeoning city at dawn but a few hours after their battle. The sun cast its first rays on the trees, turning the green leaves golden and lighting every drop of dew that had settled upon them. Scarce little stone had been used in the construction of the city. Instead, the Elves had made use of what was already growing. For the past eight years, they had coaxed the growth of tree branches and other sturdy plants around them into the formation of a long city wall. Rather than towering pillars of stone as sentry towers, stations had been built into the taller trees along the wall. Within the walls, there were more trees, stretching for at least a mile. And in the center of this green milieu was a tree that soared above all the others.

Voices called out to them as they approached, speaking in Sindarin. Both Hadoriel and Valithar called out a response and as the group of soldiers approached, the gate was opened for them and they entered.

For his part, Mablung was breathless at the sight. He had not yet been to the Elven city and had more than once imagined what it looked like. But the craft of the Elves had turned out to be so much more than his imagination had conjured that he felt as though he had walked into a dream.

"Amazing," he mused aloud to his two Elven companions, "not since I was a youth, imagining the ancient realm of Gondolin in my mind's eye, have I even conceived of such a sight."

"Gondolin looked nothing like this place," Valithar said, immediately and with a hint of remorse. And with no further words, he moved away to tend to his own company.

"I seem to have said something wrong," said Mablung to Hadoriel.

"Valithar was born in Gondolin," she replied, "he was but a fledgling at the time of its fall, but he still remembers it clearly. He was the only one of his family to survive it. He is alone on this side of the Sundering Seas."

"I had no idea he was so... so..."

"Old?"

Mablung shifted, and then nodded with a hint of embarrassment showing on his face. Hadoriel laughed.

"We Elves do not think of age in the same way that you Men do, Commander," she said, "age brings wisdom and nothing else for us and so it has little other meaning. In many ways, I envy you."

"How so?" Mablung asked.

"For you, age brings death. Elves do not die. We are tied to the circles of the world until the day that Ilúvatar Himself decides to end them. And on that day, we will end as well. But you will see worlds that I can never hope to dream of. You will continue in realms that even the One has not seen or conceived of. And so, I ask you, which of us is truly the immortal?" She placed a hand on his shoulder. "But there is no need to hurry things along. You have wounded. I will go and tell the healers that they are needed." She turned to hurry on her way, but Mablung called after her.

"Captain Hadoriel! You speak with an abnormal amount of wisdom. Just how old are _you_?"

"Not as old as Valithar," she replied cryptically and with a smile, and then hurried on her way.

With the assistance of the Elves, the Rangers made a make-shift camp in a clearing under the trees within the walls. Mablung wandered about it, checking on each and every one of his men and conversing with one of the healers about the thirteen who had been wounded. The Elf knew a great deal of lore about herbs and healing techniques and it was a wonder to Mablung to watch him work.

After a while, Mablung came to the last of his wounded charges, one of the younger Rangers. He slept fitfully and cried out whenever he moved his arm which was covered in a rapidly coloring bandage. Next to him, keeping watch, sat Bergil. He looked haggard with the ordeal of the night, but was making an effort to keep his eyes open and Mablung could see in them a spark of fear. But he sat in silence, unmoving.

"Bergil?" Mablung asked as he neared. When the youth did not respond, Mablung said his name again.

"Commander!" Bergil said finally, startled. He began to rise, but Mablung waved him off and sat down next to him.

"You should have that looked at," said the commander, indicating the cut on Bergil's cheek.

As if he had not known it was there, Bergil reached up and felt of the bruise with a shaking hand. He shook his head in confusion and looked up at Mablung. The spark of fear that had been in his eyes suddenly burst into a fire.

"Bergil?" Mablung asked with concern.

"Commander, what happened?" the youth finally asked, barely above a whisper. "There was a battle, but... I do not remember it! Was I in it? How did we happen onto the road to the Elven city? Why can I not stop shaking as a leaf?"

"Calm yourself, lad," Mablung said, grabbing Bergil by the shoulders and turning him away from the sight of his wounded comrade. "I have seen this before."

"What is wrong with me?"

"There is nothing wrong with you. You were in a battle but a few hours ago. You are not ready to remember it yet. When you are, you will. It happens to many when they fight in war for the first time. It is nothing to be ashamed of."

"Will this happen to me all the time?"

Mablung shook his head. "No," he said, "but give yourself time."

"Did... did I stand and fight?"

"Against a great force," Mablung confirmed. He reached into a pouch on his belt and pulled out a small package of herbs. He took one leaf from it and handed it to Bergil. "Here, chewing on this will calm your nerves and help you sleep. Go to the healer and see to your face. Then get some rest."

"Aye." Slowly and unsteadily, Bergil climbed to his feet. He wandered off in the direction of one of the Elves who was moving about the camp and Mablung watched him go, thinking that the lad looked no more aware than the unconscious Ranger lying nearby.

Mablung then set to wandering the camp himself, finishing his rounds to make certain that everything was in order. Once that was done, he went beyond the camp and into the Elven city. These woods were very different from the ones he knew. Choking vines did not block paths or tangle branches. Thick grass grew at his feet rather than strangling weeds. And every noise was a comfort rather than something to fear. The golden rays of the sun dappled the ground about him, bathing the woods in a warm light. Finally, Mablung found that weariness was claiming him. For but a moment, he thought, he sat down with his back against a sun-soaked tree trunk. His eyes drifted shut and he slept a sleep deeper than he had known since he had slept upon his mother's chest.

* * *

The unblazoned banner of the Steward rippled in the wind as it slowly made its way across the Pelennor field at the head of a column of silver and white. Though the clouds of the previous day remained, there was no longer the sense of stillness in the air. Things were now in motion and Faramir could feel the change as he rode. Even the city of Minas Tirith seemed to be in motion as the White Company slowly approached it.

Riding beneath the banner, at the head of the column, Faramir cast a glance back at the wagon which held Éowyn and their three children. Elboron, as the eldest, was trying to set a good example for his siblings, trying to be patient until they reached their destination. But Faramir could tell that his son was excited by the prospect of his second visit to the White City. Eldamir, by contrast, was oddly quiet and kept looking backward toward the woods of Ithilien. This would be his first visit to the Gondorian capitol and it was plain that he was not sure what to make of the monolithic towers of stone. Fréodgyth, meanwhile, was asleep in her mother's lap, completely oblivious to the restlessness of her brothers. Éowyn, for her part, kept casting longing glances at the horses. Her eyes met Faramir's for but a moment, and then looked to the distant horizon and Faramir was once again reminded of the rift between them. In thought, he looked to the white rod he carried in his hand for it felt heavier than it had before. Resolutely, he turned his mind to other things.

"Beregond, what do you make of the King's summons?" he asked the captain, riding beside him.

Beregond was silent for a moment, contemplating the looming White City. When Faramir cleared his throat, the captain suddenly looked up, startled. "Hmm? Oh, the summons," he said, "I find it rather curious he sent it by way of the trade caravan, my lord. Why not simply send it with one of his messengers? Are you certain it came from him?"

"I would know Elessar's hand if it were scratched out with a burnt coal upon a stone," Faramir replied.

"Yes, it is rather unique," Beregond agreed with a slight twinkle in his eye, "I must confess I have trouble reading it at times."

"As do I," Faramir said with a chuckle, "but the question remains; why send the summons with the caravan?"

"There are two reasons I can think of, my lord," said Beregond, "either there were none of his messengers available at the time or he decided he could not trust them."

"There is a third, Beregond, and it worries me the most. It could be that both are true. It would mean that he is summoning a great many people and that he did not wish the others to know that I would be summoned as well."

"To secretly summon the Steward of the Realm? What reason could the King have for doing that?"

"I know not," Faramir admitted, "and that is what worries me the most about all of this. Something is amiss in Gondor."

"I would not know about any of that, my lord," said Beregond, "I am but a soldier. I have always looked to men such as you in matters politic."

"Is that why you have seemed so distracted on this journey?"

"Is it so obvious?" Beregond asked with a sigh. "Yes, I suppose it is at that. To be honest, my last trip to Minas Tirith did not go well in many respects."

"Ah, I remember," said Faramir, "you had words with the Lord of Ethring, did you not?"

"That would be putting it mildly, my lord. It seems his cousin was a Citadel Guard during... during the siege."

"Ah," Faramir said with grim understanding, "Fen Hollen."

"Fen Hollen," Beregond confirmed, "needless to say, Lord Maelrúth views me as no hero."

"Maelrúth has an inflated sense of self-importance and little support among the lords. He tends to be more concerned with appearances than actualities. Do not trouble yourself overmuch with him."

"It is not he that worries me, my lord, but what he gives voice to. To many, I am not a welcome sight in Minas Tirith or indeed in Gondor at all. There are a number of people who view me as a traitor, despite the king's judgment of me."

"Yet it is the king's judgment that you received," said Faramir, "and that protects you from theirs. Maelrúth does not have the support to overturn the word of Elessar. You are the honorable man the king judged you to be, Beregond. Do not second guess yourself based on the word of one angry man."

Beregond nodded. "I will, of course, do my best to abide by what you say, my lord. But, I must admit that it disquiets me."

"Take heart, my friend," said Faramir, "there are those who will stand with you, always."

As Faramir said this, the White Company came to the Gates of Elessar which marked the entrance to black Othram, the impenetrable outer wall of Minas Tirith. Beregond spurred his horse ahead, followed closely by the standard-bearer.

"Guard of the White City!" he shouted up to the gate guard. "The Steward of the Realm has come! In his name and that of the King, open the gate to him and his company!"

At once, the massive gears on the other side of the gate could be heard to grind together and the gate opened slowly, laboriously. Beregond returned his horse to his place at Faramir's right and waited with him.

"Protocol," he muttered, sourly. Faramir gave a hum of agreement in kind.

When the gates had parted, the White Company moved into the city and into the square at the center of Ráth Celerdain, beneath the great stone prow of the mountain. The captain of the gate guard stood in the center of the square with that part of his men who were not operating the gate lined up to either side.

"_Ai, Arandur_!" the captain of the gate guard shouted over the din of the gathered crowd. "In the name of King Elessar, Minas Tirith welcomes Hurín's heir!" Here, he gave a deep bow and his men all did the same. There was a cheer from the gathered crowd and Faramir waved a thank you to them before answering the greeting.

"The Steward of the Realm accepts your welcome with great joy," he said, loud enough for all to hear.

There was still another cheer from the crowd and the White Company slowly began the long and winding ride up the main road to the Citadel. The crowd had dwindled by the time they reached the last tunnel and the rest dropped away at the sixth circle. Even the White Company halted before the entrance to the Citadel and only Faramir and his family, Beregond, Léowine, and three others went in. With brief ritual, the White Company standard bearer ascended the steps of the Tower of Ecthelion and stood before one of the two standard bearers of the King that flanked the doors. The two bowed to each other, and then the King's standard bearer stepped to the side to be replaced by that of the White Company. There were two standards flanking the door to the Tower, now; the King's on the right and the Steward's on the left. The one who had been relieved then descended the stairs and stood aside.

Finally, all of the ritual was finished and Faramir gave a sigh of relief that the king was not at that moment embroiled in court. His welcome by the king would be far less formal. The last few riders of the White Company all dismounted their horses.

"Léowine, will you see to the Company's housing in the sixth circle?" said Faramir.

"Of course, my lord," answered the commander and with a quick bow he departed.

"The rest of you are dismissed," Beregond said to the others and they, too, departed. "By the Valar, I will never grow accustomed to all of that!"

"Imagine how I feel!" said Faramir with a laugh. He clapped a hand on Beregond's shoulder and they both turned to go into the Tower, the White Rod clicking on the stonework as they went.

Waiting for them in the throne chamber was the king himself. One lone Guard of the Citadel stood within the doors at formal watch. He was awkwardly tall and gangly and Faramir thought as he passed that he seemed rather young to wear the Tree and Stars. He put it out of mind, though, and as Faramir and Beregond crossed the room, Elessar came down the stairs of the throne to greet them. Faramir bowed and Beregond dropped to one knee.

"_Mae gevennin_, my friends," said Elessar, "you are most welcome in my halls."

"You sent for me, my lord, and I come," said Faramir, clasping the arm Elessar offered him in friendship.

"And for that I am grateful. To you as well, Captain Beregond and for Valars' sakes, please, on your feet."

"Aye, my king," said Beregond with a note of thanks in his voice as he rose.

"It is good that you are here as well, Captain, for Faramir will no doubt have need of you. I'm certain you both have questions," said Elessar, "and we must waste no time in answering them for you. Others will be arriving in Minas Tirith, some of them within the day, and we will have further preparations to make." He looked over Faramir's shoulder to the Citadel Guard. "Nindcabor."

"Your Majesty!" the young guard said, standing to attention.

"Please see that the hall is sealed, will you?"

"At once, my lord!" Quickly, the youth scurried about the hall, checking every small space he knew of. Once he was satisfied that none but the king, Faramir, and Beregond were in the room, he went to the doors, stepped outside, and closed them.

"This is serious, then," said Beregond, "can that young one be trusted to keep the doors?"

"I believe he can," said Elessar as he strolled across the room to the door. He leaned up against it casually. "Thus far, he has managed to keep his mouth shut, despite the fact that he knows rather more than I wished. As a matter of fact, he's no doubt listening right now." He made a fist and with it, pounded upon the door once.

"Ow!" came an exclamation from the other side.

"Nindcabor is curious, but I judge him to be no spy."

"Spy?" Faramir asked, watching the king saunter away from the door once again and make for a carafe of wine sitting on a table. "What worry have you of spies, my lord? Surely you do not worry that the Orcs send spies against us. And a man of Harad would not blend in well enough here to be a spy. What enemy could send one of their own here to listen and watch?"

"No enemy, I fear," said Elessar around a swallow of wine, "I've received word of troubles in the northern kingdom."

"There is a messenger from Arnor? Here?" Beregond asked.

"More than one," said the king. Then, in a louder voice, he called to the open air, saying; "you may come out of hiding any time you wish."

Faramir heard it first, a pattering of feet from somewhere behind the king's throne. Beregond was still looking about the room, confused as Faramir turned his head to the sound and looked. There, he saw three small figures creeping out of the shadows, two of them pushing aside their green cloaks as they came and the third careful to stay behind them, somewhat shy and seeming awestruck.

"By my toes, it _is_ Faramir!" said the one who crossed the room fastest. As he stepped into the light, Faramir was overjoyed to find that it was his friend, Peregrin, who men in Minas Tirith had once called _Ernil i Pheriannath_, Prince of Halflings. Behind him came his cousin Meriadoc, who had helped Éowyn slay the Witch-king. "And Beregond, too! Oh, how wonderful to see you again!"

"_Periain_!" Faramir exclaimed, even as Beregond's gaze turned toward the Halflings. The Steward knelt to receive them in friendship, setting aside the White Rod as if it were a mere bauble. "You've returned to Gondor! And with no word of your coming! This is indeed a great surprise!"

"We've been here for almost three days, in fact," said Merry, "Strider's kept us shut up all secret like. But not without reason."

"Reason, Master Meriadoc?" Beregond asked in confusion. "It is good to see you both again, it is true. But what reason might you have for stealing into the White City in secret? Surely, you have no enemies here. And who is your friend?"

The third Hobbit, the one who had remained closer to the shadows as Merry and Pippin both greeted their friends, suddenly straightened in discomfort. He seemed to sum up his courage before taking a few steps toward the group.

"Alton Goodbarrel of Bree, my lords," he said with a clumsy bow, "at your service."

"Alton's been with us for most of our trip," said Merry, "he helped us get out of Bree before we were found."

"Found?" Faramir said in concern.

"Perhaps it is time to tell Lord Faramir and his captain all that has happened in the North," Elessar said gravely, "we will have some time for pleasantries later, but for now we have business to attend to."

"Yes," Faramir agreed, standing once again and taking up the White Rod, "your message, my lord, did reek of urgency."

Elessar sighed heavily and for the first time since all of them had assembled allowed the weight that was upon his mind to show. He shook his head and, clasping his hands behind his back, wandered to the center of the room and looked up at the throne.

"There is trouble with my northern kin," he said, "with no Enemy to guard against in the north, my people are creating new lives for themselves; the lives of farmers and merchants. It has been eight years since the fall of Sauron and men in the north who had been warriors are starting families, having children."

"This troubles you, Majesty?" Beregond asked. "I had thought the northern kingdom was all too sparsely populated."

"Yes," said Elessar, "the land is very wild indeed. And therein lies the problem."

"Arable land," said Faramir with realization, "after a thousand years, Arnor suddenly has a new, booming population and a need to feed it, but not hands enough to clear land for farming fast enough."

"The Shire's the biggest tract of farmland in the north," said Merry, "we Hobbits have been farming it for generations. We know how to make things grow in it. And, oh Strider! You should see it, now that old Sam's been spreading about his gift from the Lady Galadriel! That's some magical dirt, if ever I saw any!"

"The men 'round there have started wanting in, though," Pippin put in, "they've out and out started jumping the Bounds up near Greenfields in the North Farthing. The Bounders are starting to have quite the time of it. None of us like the thought of any of the big folk going hungry, but, that's our land! We need it just as much."

"We've had it in hand up to now," Merry continued, "but there's camps building just outside the Bounds of the North Farthing."

"Near Evendim and the ruin of Annúminas?" Faramir asked.

"Right," said Merry, "or so the old maps say. But, we've been keeping an eye on these camps, real close. They're gathering weapons. We think they're getting ready to come in by force!"

"The Bounders do as good a job as they can," said Pippin, "but those are battle-trained Rangers! We Hobbits can't fight against a whole army like that!"

"And I'm just worried about Bree!"

It was Alton who had spoken up for the first time since his greeting. At first, everyone else was startled by the input, having all but forgotten that the Bree-lander was there. He had hung back toward the wall and watched as the conversation progressed, not daring to say anything and more than a little awestruck by the sight of the Lords of Gondor taking counsel. When all turned to him, he shrank back somewhat, as if he was embarrassed at speaking out of turn.

"Well, c'mon, Alton lad," Merry said to him after a moment of uncomfortable silence in the hall, "you're a part of this, too."

"But... this is a council for great lords and kings!" said Alton. "I'm just an innkeeper."

"If my lords will permit me to say," Beregond began, strolling over to the young halfling, "there are things that great lords and kings can easily overlook. In my experience, innkeepers and bartenders know a great deal more about the people than even the kindest of rulers. There are things that one will say to a friend that one would never say to a lord." He placed his hands on the Hobbit's shoulders and ushered him into the group. "Come, Master Alton, tell us of Bree."

The Bree-lander swallowed heavily as he looked from face to face and mastered his nerves. "Well, it's just... you know how Hobbits and big folk have always gotten on in Bree," he said, "it's an understanding, you might say. Nowhere in Middle-earth has an arrangement quite like we do in Bree. But lately it seems that men and Hobbits haven't been getting on as well. They're starting to do less and less together, as neighbors, if you understand me. And I'm worried what will happen in the Bree-land if fighting breaks out in the Shire. I don't want to see neighbors fighting each other, too!"

"Bree would never survive an outbreak of fighting between men and Hobbits," Elessar mused.

"That's just what I mean!" Alton exclaimed.

"My Lord, I feel I must play the part of Melkor's advocate in this for but a moment," said Faramir, "the truth of the matter is that the Arnorians need food and farmland. Their hunger is growing and something must be done. I can understand their desperation and I can understand that it may drive them to unpleasant deeds."

"But we can't just let them have the Shire!" Merry protested hotly, a certain amount of ire directed at the Steward.

"Peace, Merry," said Elessar, "Faramir is only speaking for those who have no voice in this room right now. The Arnorians are just as much my responsibility as the Gondorians."

"Oh, this is quite a pickle," Pippin lamented.

"And I fear it is only going to get worse," said Elessar, "I have received word that, though none of the Lords of the North will be in attendance at the upcoming council, they have appointed a representative in Lord Maelrúth of Ethring."

Beregond sighed heavily and his proud shoulders dropped as if a new weight had been placed upon them. "He will be ruthless, I am certain. His mother must have had the foresight of an Elven woman to have named him so well. Jealous anger, indeed."

Elessar had taken to regarding his throne in silence once again. He paced to and fro slowly as the others watched, half expecting him to say something that would sweep away the entire problem. Finally, he sighed and turned back to regard the group.

"It is clear to me that we six alone cannot find the solution to this puzzle," he said at last, "but perhaps more minds will avail us when the council meets. Until then, little ones, I think it best that you remain hidden. None but us six, Nindcabor, and the Queen know that you have reached Minas Tirith with word of the situation and I deem it best that it is a surprise."

"I agree," said Faramir, "Maelrúth, for all his lack of support among the Lords of Gondor, is a shrewd negotiator. The _Periain_'s unexpected appearance may knock him off balance."

"And if that doesn't work," said Pippin, "from the look of old Beregond, I think he'd be willing to knock him off his block."

Beregond, still with a sour look upon his face and his arms crossed over his chest in impatience, colored somewhat but said nothing.

It was Elessar that broke the uncomfortable silence after that with a clear of his throat. "Then it is settled," he said, "the Hobbits' presence will remain a secret for the time being. And now, if you four would not mind, I would have a moment with my Steward in private."

As Beregond gave a respectful bow and began heading toward the chamber door, Merry's gaze darted back and forth quickly between the Steward and the King before he gathered up his two younger companions and began herding them toward the secret passage behind the throne from which they had emerged. "C'mon, lads," he said, "big folk business."

"Oh! Beregond!" Pippin called back over his shoulder. "Perhaps after all this we can go and get a pint or two of Millennium Ale at the Glittering Sword!"

The captain seemed to stumble somewhat and Faramir could have sworn that the back of Beregond's neck turned an even deeper shade of red. The old soldier quickly regained his stride, however and continued onward with a clearing of his throat and an almost imperceptible mutter. Faramir was hard-pressed to suppress his laugh.

"Something I missed?" Aragorn asked of Faramir after the doors clanged shut.

"Quite possibly," said Faramir, "but I must admit, there is a portion of the night in question that I do not entirely remember, myself. But you did not ask me to stay to reminisce on days past."

"Alas, no," Aragorn said with a heavy sigh. He turned once again to the throne and gazed up at it, this time allowing to show all his feeling that it was a giant boulder pressing down upon him. "I have made a grievous error, Faramir. I have lavished all my attention upon Gondor and, indeed, it flourishes. The northern lands I left to my kin to tend and I trusted they would flourish as well. They are all great men and I have known them all my life. Never once did I imagine they would do such a thing as they are planning now. They battled the Shadow without resorting to such measures. After all of that, I never thought that hunger could drive them to this."

"And now you think them not as great as you imagined?"

"Perhaps so. But, ultimately, it is from them that I spring. Perhaps I am not so great a man as I thought. Perhaps the Reunited Kingdom is simply too vast for me to grasp."

"I will not say you have not made a mistake, my lord," Faramir said in reply to this, "but nor will I say that you are not a great man. For even the greatest of men are still men and will still err. I yet believe in my heart that my brother was one of the greatest men gifted to Gondor, yet he made a grievous error, possibly the most horrendous of all. Yet you were there; you saw his action in the end. Will you say that Boromir was not a great man because of his one mistake?"

"No," Aragorn admitted, "no, I would not."

"Then judge not yourself by different standards," said Faramir, "has the throne neglected Arnor? Yes. But we may yet fix the mistake." He crossed his arms over his chest and cast a somewhat sour look at Aragorn. "And, it seems, we must cure you of this uncharacteristic bout of arrogance from which you suffer."

Finally Aragorn's gaze shifted from the throne to look at Faramir with a sour look of his own. "You are walking the bounds of our friendship rather closely, Faramir."

"Forgive me, but you wished for my candor, did you not?"

"I did," Aragorn replied, settling down upon the bottom most two stairs of the throne, "so tell me, o wise Steward of the Realm! From what arrogance do I suffer?"

"A realm as vast as the Reunited Kingdom cannot be expected to rise and fall based upon the actions of one man, even if he is king. You may not have paid enough attention to Arnor, but ultimately that can only be responsible for the fact that you knew nothing of the dire situation there. The lords of the north sent no messengers and are acting alone. The greater mistake would be not to investigate why."

"I had not thought of that," Aragorn admitted, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands, "what possible reason could they have for keeping me ignorant?"

Faramir began to pace back and forth, slowly, not looking at any one thing in the room but at some far off place that held his thoughts. "I do not like any of the answers that are coming to me," he answered after a moment.

"They have sent messengers, but none of them have made it through," Aragorn suggested.

"This would mean there is some dangerous obstacle between Gondor and Arnor, probably along the border."

"The lords of the north plan something that they do not wish me to hear about."

"Anything of that nature would be tantamount to treason. I do not even wish to comprehend that."

"I cannot fathom that, either. The men of the north may be desperate, but I do not believe them to be traitors. But, we have seen no growing threat along the borders between north and south. What else could it be?"

"There is but one other possibility that I can imagine," said Faramir, "they believe their messages are reaching you when they are not."

"But how can that be?" Aragorn asked. "Either their messenger reaches Minas Tirith and returns to tell the men of the north so, or he does not."

"Yet, have you seen a messenger from Arnor in recent years?" Faramir shook his head. "No, something is afoot here in Gondor as well. The scope and shape of it is not clear, but someone is working against you in some way, whether he knows it or not. Perhaps more will come to light when the council convenes."

Aragorn nodded and stood, pulling himself up to his full height once again and squaring his shoulders. "Perhaps," said Elessar, "in the meantime, Lord Steward, make some discreet inquiries. You know the shape and character of the Gondorian nobility better than I. Find out if any messengers from the men of Arnor have reached Gondor, not just Minas Tirith. See if there is some place where the paths of north and south cross. The Ranger-Lords of Gondor will track down this rabbit and flush him out, soon enough."

* * *

Mablung awoke when he sensed a presence above him. A change in surroundings was always something he was aware of, even in sleep. It had kept him alive on more than one occasion. But, even so, to come out of sleep with a figure standing above him was jarring. His hand went to his sword as he sprang to his feet and it was half unsheathed before he realized that he was facing an Elf.

"Peace, _mellon-nín_," the Elf said, putting up his hands in a placating gesture, "you are yet in Galenost and safe."

As Mablung came fully to wakefulness, he took stock of the figure before him. He was covered from head to toe in white. Knot work patterns in gold danced and weaved about the hems of his sleeves and about his neck, disappearing beneath the strands of his long hair. The Elf carried himself as if he could see something that Mablung could not, though his eyes seemed to remain fixed on the Ranger.

"May I assume that you are Commander Mablung?" the Elf asked.

"Yes," Mablung replied with a small nod.

"I am Amarthir," said the Elf, "Loremaster of Galenost. Master Legolas has requested your presence in the Great Tree and he sent me to retrieve you."

"Yes, of course," said Mablung, gathering up his pack, "please, lead the way."

Wordlessly, Amarthir turned and began walking. Mablung followed a step behind, once again gazing about him at the wonder that was the green city. Several hours had passed for the sun was now high overhead and the morning dew had lifted. They passed through what seemed to be a mile of dappled sunlight, weaving in and out of stands of trees as they went. At last, they came upon the trunk of an enormous tree about which spiraled wooden stairs delicate to look upon. The roots of the tree, gnarled and knotted, were nearly as large as Mablung himself and plunged in and out of the earth in heaving tendrils.

Amarthir led the way up the winding stairs. Soon, the spiral was broken by great branches and the Elf took Mablung on a path that led them from one wooden balcony to the next. When Mablung was able, he looked out over the edge of one of the flets and saw the tops of the surrounding trees below, their branches swaying in passing breezes and waving up at him.

At last, when there was no higher flet to climb to, Amarthir brought Mablung to Legolas. The Lord of Galenost stood in thought near the rail of his flet, looking westward to the thin, winding line that was the river Andúin afar. He turned when he heard footsteps and Mablung dropped into a small bow.

"Ah, Commander Mablung!" Legolas exclaimed as Amarthir excused himself. "How fare your men?"

"They are safe, fed, and their wounds are being cared for," Mablung replied, "it is more than I could have asked for from your people. I thank you."

"I only wish I could offer more. It is the efforts of the Rangers and the White Company that keep Galenost's walls from being attacked. Though, Hadoriel tells me that the Orcs are gaining ground."

"Yes," Mablung affirmed, "not since the war have I seen them as far west as they were this morning. It troubles me."

"It troubles me as well," said Legolas. He turned from Mablung and retrieved a small scroll from his desk. "And it troubles Aragorn as well, it would seem."

"A message from King Elessar?"

Legolas nodded. "An invitation. He is holding a council in Minas Tirith three days from now. He has invited all the lords of the west, Éomer, King Bard in Dale, my father in Greenwood, and all the lords of Gondor. The purpose for the council is not clearly stated, but he implies a need for communication between us all." His tone darkened somewhat and he paused before continuing. "But, knowing him as I do, I believe he may have some other reason for calling this council. Have you any idea what it may be?"

"I have none," said Mablung, "but if the Lords of Gondor are meeting, I must return to Minas Estel at once. Prince Faramir must be made aware of the attack last night."

"Faramir is already in Minas Tirith," said Legolas, "the White Company marched yesterday."

Mablung looked at Legolas with surprise clear writ on his face. Legolas easily read the question that the Ranger very much wanted to ask, but did not wish to presume to.

"Some of Hadoriel and Valithar's people are quite well-traveled," said the Elf, mercifully satisfying Mablung's curiosity, "they brought me word of the White Company's travel just an hour ago."

Mablung nodded his understanding. "I still must get word to the Prince."

"I assumed as much," said Legolas, "as it happens, I am leaving for Minas Tirith in just a few hours. If you don't mind traveling with my company, you are quite welcome to join us. Your men may remain in Galenost, if they so choose."

"To travel with Elves!" Mablung exclaimed with a laugh. "Mind it? Master Legolas, not since I was a boy did I dare to dream such a thing! I would travel with you, by your leave. But, I would ask just one other thing."

"You have but to name it, Commander."

"There is one of my company who I feel must be taken away from all this. Last night was his first taste of battle and he did not react well to it."

"You speak of the son of Beregond?"

"I do."

"Yes, I saw him this morning, myself. He did not seem well. If you are certain he is well enough to travel, he may accompany us also."

* * *

Beregond sorely wanted to return to Ithilien. The white city had been his home at one time, but now he found it all too cramped and stifling. It was especially so now that all the lords of Gondor were milling about in the Citadel and the fifth and sixth circles.

One of these was Maelrúth, the Lord of Ethring, who Beregond had met just a year ago and who seemed determined to do everything in his power to make Beregond's time in Minas Tirith as miserable as possible. Every time Beregond would appear at court in his duty as Captain of the White Company, the Lord would raise objection and demand Beregond be removed from the Citadel.

Faramir and Elessar, of course, would have none of that and together decreed that Beregond would remain at the Steward's right hand. Even so, the other lords were already tiring of the ritual and there were whispers that Maelrúth be appeased on this point if only to silence him.

For all intents and purposes, Beregond was alone in the White City. It was not that the men of the company did not include him, for he was their captain and how could they do else? But Beregond observed that it was not the same between him and the men of the company as it was between one of the company and another. His rank set him apart from them and it demanded that they treat him differently. At the same time, though Faramir was a dear friend to him, it was not the same as any other friendship he had had. Faramir's rank also held him apart; though it was clear he wished it was different. And so, Beregond was caught in the middle, between those higher and lower than him and seemingly peerless.

All in all, Beregond's desire to run someone though with his sword was growing by the hour. So it was a rare and wonderful thing when he was able to retreat to the solitude of his old house in the sixth circle. But, the rounded rooms of the old house were strangely empty and silent and Beregond soon learned that he found no solace in that. Once, they had been filled with the sounds of his two most cherished people. Now, his wife, Rindrian, was long dead and Bergil was off in Ithilien on his first patrol. The house he had once loved was now little more than stone to him; he had no desire to remain there any longer than he needed. None the less, this was where he was when Léowine found him on the second day of their stay in Minas Tirith.

"Lord Faramir has requested your presence at the gate, Captain," the Ithilrochon stated, "two companies approach the city."

"Well, they are certainly arriving in droves, now, aren't they," Beregond mused, sliding on the white overcoat of his livery and buckling on his sword, "which companies?"

"Éomer-king approaches from the north," said Léowine, "Master Gimli and the Dwarves of Aglarond ride with him. From across the Pelennor comes Master Legolas and his Elves. And I have received word that Mablung and Bergil accompany them. They will likely be at the gate by the time we arrive at the first circle."

"Have you any idea why Mablung and Bergil have come?" Beregond asked, his head snapping up in surprise.

"No, but they seemed to my eyes to be very troubled and weary."

With worry and more haste than he strictly needed, Beregond went with Léowine to the first circle. There was near chaos at the gate as Legolas' company milled about under the direction of the gate guard. Evidently, they had not been told where they would be staying as yet. Beregond fought off the temptation to wade into this milieu and turn faces toward his own until he found his son. Instead, he opted for a slightly saner method of searching. As tall as he was, he still needed to climb up on the ledge of a fountain near the edge of the square to see over the milling crowd. Finally, among the greens and whites of the Elves and the black and silver of the guard, he spotted two figures in brown. Steeling himself, Beregond hopped down from the fountain edge and pushed his way into the crowd toward them.

Mablung was hanging protectively close to Bergil as Beregond approached. But when he saw his father, he abandoned the commander's side and made his way toward Beregond. Mablung followed closely, apparently unwilling to leave the younger ranger's side.

"Father!" Bergil exclaimed when they reached each other and threw himself into Beregond's embrace.

"Oh, my dear one!" said Beregond. "It is indeed good to have you here, safe, again." He put both his hands on Bergil's shoulders and pushed him away so that he could look at him. He noticed a large purpling bruise on one cheek surrounding a large cut and gently ran his fingertips over it in inspection. "What is this? What befell you that you travel with the Elves?"

"We have much to discuss, Captain," Mablung put in from over Bergil's shoulder, "things in northern Ithilien may be getting out of hand. I fear for Henneth Annûn."

* * *

Thus it was that still another round of discussions passed in the King's Hall in the citadel. It was fast becoming a ritual, the Lord of Ethring's discontent. Once more, the great and the good of Gondor and her neighbors gathered to discuss the threat from the east. Once more, Lord Maelrúth protested Beregond's presence. Once more, the rest of the Lords all gave a sigh of impatience. And once more, Elessar and Faramir forcibly tabled the topic.

But the afternoon's ordeals were soon to give way to pleasantries. With all of the Kings of the West now in attendance, and with the city of Minas Tirith now teeming with Men and Elves and Dwarves from many walks of life, it was time for the welcoming feast. The hall of Merethrond had been thrown open, its lanterns lit and its fires stoked. A gathering of bards and musicians from all over the west gathered to play music and, couple by couple, the nobility were announced into the hall for the grand ball that was to take place. Each came in their finest, arrayed in the colors and cloths of their homelands.

Standing near the thrones of Gondor, greeting each as they came, were King Elessar and Queen Undómiel. The crown of Gondor was set upon the king's brow and he was clothed in black embroidered in silver, flowering branches and wore a mantle with seven stars playing around the neck. The queen chose silver to wear, a flowing gown that evoked water by moonlight, upon which her raven hair tumbled.

Faramir was there, of course, escorting his lady wife Éowyn. Both were arrayed in white, silver circlets wrought as vines holding back their hair. Éowyn wore the starry mantle that had been Faramir's gift to her in the dark days of the war.

Clad in the blue and white of his principality came Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth. With him came his three sons, each tall and fair as their cousin the Steward.

Éomer, King of Rohan, entered the hall with his Queen Lothíriel in hand. Green and brown and gold was their garb and upon their heads they wore the golden crowns of Rohan. White horses cantered around the hems of Lothiriel's dress and a great white stallion lent its visage to the front of Éomer-king's surcoat.

Master Legolas attended for the Elves, bringing word from his father, King Thranduil of Greenwood the Great, and the Lord Celeborn in Lothlórien. He was flanked by the Captains Valithar and Hadoriel and together all three wore the green of their forest home.

Two groups came for the Dwarves. The first was Master Gimli of the glittering caves who came with his captain Ghan the Ironaxe and one other at his side. Browns and golds they wore with threads of mithril showing around their sleeves. The other Dwarves came from the Lonely Mountain far in the north. Led by Norin, son of Nori, they brought tidings from the King Under the Mountain and wore his colors, red and silver.

Farthest of all in the Hall of Merethrond came King Bard II of Dale, a thin mithril crown on his head and blue his garb, golden arrows embroidered about the edges of his surcoat.

It was an echoing cacophony of music and chatter in the hall which made it rather hard to hold a conversation at the feast table, so much of the feast was taken up by performances by bards and minstrels and jesters from all over the west. Never since in lands east of the Sundering Sea was there such a gathering of the free peoples of Middle-earth. All in attendance were made keenly aware of the slow departure of the Elves when, in a haunting tenor, an Elven bard from Legolas' company called Siphael sang in slow Sindarin the Lay of Leithian which mourned the loss of Lúthien Tinúviel of old. And ever the more haunting became his voice when he met the eyes of Queen Undómiel.

Soon, though, the musicians in the hall turned to lighter music and began a set of structured music for dancing which seemed to call out instructions for the dancers as it was played. Pipes and winds began to play and all assembled into sets of eight for the first dance, facing the front of the hall.

Faramir found himself dancing with his wife as one of the two middle couples of the group. Éomer and Lothíriel were at the head of the set at his left. To his right was Beregond who had somehow been talked into escorting Hadoriel for the first dance set. And finally, at the back of the formation was Gimli and the Dwarf who had come with him and Ghan; a Dwarf who, Faramir suddenly realized, was a woman. Gimli introduced her as Dwelen.

"I am curious, Captain Hadoriel," Éowyn began a conversation as the opening reverence sounded. "How is it that you find yourself in a gown this night?"

"Are you shocked by the rarity, my lady?" the elf asked as the dancers all faced the head of the hall.

"I certainly am," Beregond commented as the whole group took a step and held, then another.

"Ahh, what's so strange about an Elven maid in a dress?" Gimli asked as the steps continued, three more, then another hold. "Ye see that all the time."

"Not this one, Master Gimli," said Faramir as the steps of the dance were repeated. "She is more apt to armor and weaponry than jewels and finery."

"And yet she dances so well," said Éomer as the steps began to repeat again, going toward the back of the hall.

"Unlike you, my lord husband, who just learned these steps a handful of days ago," Lothíriel chimed in.

"But the question has not yet been answered," said Éowyn as the last of the backward steps finished. As she said this, and as the couples all faced each other, she gave a rather pointed glance to her own husband. "Why do you find yourself in a gown, Captain?"

"In truth, I lost a bet," answered Hadoriel, taking a step to the left, then one to the right as the rest of the ladies in the set did as well. They continued and turned over their left shoulders. "To my cousin, the Loremaster Amarthir. Suffice it to say that you should all be thankful that he won, or it would be he you would be seeing in the gown."

"I see that Mistress Dwelen is not wearing a gown this night," commented Beregond as the lords all stepped left, then right.

"Dwarven women have no need for gowns," said Dwelen as the lords all turned over their left shoulders.

"Aye, they're vexing that way," said Gimli as the couples joined hands.

"All women are vexing in some way," said Faramir as the couples, with hands joined, turned and switched places with their partners. The faintest glimmer of a sour face rippled across Éowyn's features at this.

"Sister, are you vexing the good Prince of Ithilien?" Éomer asked, half in jest, as the whole group slid four times down the hall to the lords' left. "Or is he vexing you, perhaps?"

"By the Valar, no!" Éowyn replied as the two lines switched places again. "He troubles me with nothing at all! The perfect gentleman!" Again, she gave Faramir a meaningful look. It did little more than puzzle him.

"Not that I am not grateful for the family reunion King Elessar is affording us," said Lothíriel as the group slid up the hall, again to the lords' left, four times. "But I get the impression we have been called here for more than the incursion of Orcs into Ithilien."

"Quite so," said Beregond as the two lines faced each other and took two steps back from each other. As this happened, the captain caught Faramir's gaze and words seemed to pass between them in an instant.

"There are a number of things to be discussed," Faramir elaborated as the two lines stepped back toward each other again.

"Such as?" Éomer asked as the dance began again.

"Well, for one thing, communication," said Faramir, "beacon fires and tokens of arrows are all well and fine for kingdoms adjacent to each other, but there are lands in Middle-earth that are quite remote. And, as we learned in the War of the Ring, information is key in deciding what actions to take against a foe."

"_Ignorance is as sure a killer as an arrow_, as my cousin would say," said Hadoriel.

"I see," said Lothíriel, "the Reunited Kingdom alone is certainly vast. Too vast to rely on the methods of communication to which we are accustomed."

"What of the Palantíri?" Gimli put in. This garnered him a number of arched eyebrows before several sets of eyes turned to gauge Faramir's reaction. The Steward was about to speak when Hadoriel spoke first.

"If the lost ones might be found. But to my knowledge, it is only known where three of the seven are resting. Two of them are in this very city and the third was taken with the Ring-bearers across the Sundering Seas to Aman where it always looked."

"You are well-versed in the lore of the seeing stones," Éomer said with surprise.

"Valithar told me once that he had seen the building of Amon Sûl and that Elendil the Tall had placed one there. That was when we were sent to try and find the stone after the tower's fall."

"I take it you were unsuccessful," said Dwelen.

"Alas, we searched high and low, but no, our company did not find the Palantír of Amon Sûl. It turned out that it had been taken to the sea for safe-keeping. But the ship that carried it sank. Our search was for naught. And to make matters worse, we were attacked by a company out of Angmar. I took a rather nasty blow to my sword-arm in that fight."

Éowyn glanced at Hadoriel's exposed right arm as they danced past one another. "You show no sign of it."

"Nay, my lady, of course not," replied Hadoriel with a laugh, "that scar faded after a hundred years or so. I have not had that scar for centuries."

"I keep forgetting just how old you Elves can be," said Beregond, "just how old, exactly, are you, Captain Hadoriel?"

"Why Captain Beregond," said Éowyn in jest, "how ungentlemanly of you to ask a lady her age!"

"And one who bears sharpened arms, no less!" put in Éomer. "Long ago I learned that lesson in dealing with my own sister. Either you have missed that lesson or you are a braver man than I!"

"Now, my lord Éomer," said Gimli, "leave us not be mocking our good Captain of Ithilien. One takes ignorance, the other folly. But the two are not mutually exclusive."

"By the Valar, Master Gimli!" said Éowyn, "have you just managed to mock every woman here?"

"It certainly seems that way to me," Lothíriel stated in mock indignation, "perhaps our husbands should do something about it."

A great deal of the rest of the dance set was taken up by such inane conversation, for which Beregond was thankful. Every once in a while, the talk would stray far too close to the secret matter that was to be revealed when the Council of the King, as many were now coming to call it, would be convened the following day. Every time it did, the captain caught his prince's eye for some signal of what he should say. Most of the time, however, he was so uncertain that he said nothing at all and all the while he wondered why he had been entrusted with information so secret. He was, after all, little more than a soldier and not well suited to the clandestine dealings of the lords of Gondor.

As soon as he was able without insult, Beregond took his leave from the hall and wandered out into the courtyard of the Citadel, a goblet of wine in one hand. He sauntered out along the great stone prow of the city, looking down upon the lower levels as he had in years past as a Guard of the Citadel. Almost as if in habit, he scanned the scene, turning his head toward the interior of the Citadel, checking each of its corners in turn. A moment later and his gaze fell upon that place where he had broken his oath to save he who was now his lord, tucked away in a corner at the back of the sixth circle below. His heart broke at the sight of it, guarded even now by a face he did not recognize. He knew that he would never again know the names of the men who guarded that door; but always would the names of those he had killed before it be etched into his memory. He nearly lifted his glass in toast to them, but decided against it; he was not fit to do so. He simply took a drink instead.

"My sword betrayed his father," he mused, "and my tongue is liable to betray him."

"You give yourself far too little credit," came a voice behind him. Beregond turned to it and there saw Queen Arwen drifting his way across the stone, seeming more to flow than to walk.

"Your Majesty," Beregond said, dropping into a bow. She waved him out of it a moment later.

"You have said little this night," said the Queen, "some have remarked that you are overly terse and too common for the dance hall."

"Your Majesty, if I have insulted you in any way-"

"Nay, Captain, nay," she said with a laugh, "I have come to know that such behavior is not your norm. And those who know you know it as well. But they would not dare to relieve you of your dark thoughts, thinking that perhaps you feel it is your duty to bear them."

"But is it not, Your Majesty? I alone shed blood at the door to the Silent Street."

"Yet it was on behalf of another. Is it wrong to choose life over death?"

"I slew four to save one."

"Nay, by my accounting, it is five that you saved that night."

Beregond looked at her in confusion. "Five, Your Majesty?" he asked. "But there was none in danger save Lord Faramir."

"And if you had not rescued him from that danger, what would have happened then?" she asked. "How would the Lady Éowyn have mended her broken heart? Surely, the shadow would have remained upon her if not for the presence of the one you saved. And since, they have together brought three children into the world who would not exist without their parents to give them life. And so, you saved five and the balance is one more amongst the living."

"Forgive me, Your Majesty," said Beregond with a shake of his head, "but that argument seems academic at best. I did not know at the time that any of these things would come to pass. I am no great sage or even adept at the art of speech. I am a common soldier. I do not belong in the midst of such great men as are inside the hall this night."

"But you are loyal and your heart is true," said the Queen, "and such virtues as these are more precious than the greatest of minds. I will not say 'be at ease,' for vigilance over our tongues is still needed until tomorrow's Council. But know that the King and I have not placed our trust in you in haste." Here she gave something of a bitter laugh. "And, I will add, not without a certain amount of understanding. Neither one of the two of us are suited to holding our tongues in this way, either."

"But, Your Majesty!"

"Are you going to contradict me, Captain?"

"No! I mean... it's just that... you are the King and Queen of Gondor!"

"And that makes my truth more important than yours," said the Queen, her eyes dancing in amusement. "Do not contradict me when I am being kind."

In spite of his dark mood, Beregond found that he was smiling, a weak smile though it was. "As you say, Your Majesty," he said, giving her a respectful incline of his head.

"This gathering is perhaps unkind to you," she said a moment later, around a sigh. Clearly, her light words were little comfort. "If you wish to depart for the evening, I will see to it that Faramir and Éowyn are made to understand."

Beregond cast a glance downward over the walls, his eyes resting on the façade of the Houses of Healing. "Then perhaps I shall see to my son. You have my thanks, Your Majesty."

"Go then and find a light with which to fill your heart. You deserve it more than you believe."

Beregond gave another bow and then took his leave. The Queen watched him go and pondered the conversation for a long moment before returning to Merethrond and the merriment within.

* * *

The son of Beregond was, meanwhile, embroiled in very different concerns. He had very much wished to attend the gathering in the Citadel, but had been disallowed by his father. Instead, he was to languish in the Houses of Healing, resting, even though he was completely sound of body but for the small wound on his cheek. He had pleaded to be allowed to rest in his father's house in the sixth circle, but Beregond had insisted that Bergil not be left alone.

And so it was that Bergil found himself wandering the garden of the Houses, restless, hearing the sounds of the ball above in the Citadel. He had little to do but think and his active mind raced and his body attempted to follow it as Bergil paced to and fro in a secluded corner of the garden.

His mind went round in circles, attempting to replay the events of the past day. So much had happened; nearly too much to take in. His memories were disjointed, and fragmented. One moment, he recalled a sword descending toward him. Then, the memory of a leaf, dew-covered and glistening silver with the morning sun, descending gently on a breeze. He remembered grotesque hands on his throat, noise all around him and the ground on his back. And then, it was gentle hands bathing his face with cool water that he remembered, quiet calm all around him. One after another, the images came to his mind, and soon he very nearly forgot that he was alone in the garden.

And then, he remembered his sword, swinging wildly through the air in very nearly all directions. It impacted against one hideous figure after another and nowhere was there a face friendly to him.

Finally, his pacing brought the heel of his foot down upon a small twig. It snapped and as it did, he remembered an arrow landing in the neck of one of the creatures. The noise broke his concentration, bringing Bergil back to the here and now. He looked to his foot, almost expecting to see there a dried up old bone. When he saw there only the twig, he forced a calming breath into his lungs and leaned his back against the nearest tree, looking up at the cloud-covered sky above.

A new sound came to his ears, then, softly at first, moving closer though he could not see where it was coming from. It was a voice, singing in a soft alto. Silently, as if to make a sound would be to break the spell, Bergil moved toward it, searching for the source of the voice.

Crouching near a small patch of garden, singing to herself as she picked leaves from several of the herb plants there, was the healer Higéthryth. The herbs that she plucked from the plants she deposited into a small basket next to her before moving on to the next plant. All the while, she sang to herself.

_O! sister mare with hooves so fleet_

_ Where do you gallop, whom do you meet?_

_ Is there one your heart desires,_

_ Who moves you through this night so dire?_

_ Or are you running o'er the plain,_

_ The freedom we deserve to gain?_

_ Your echoing cry answers "nay!"_

_ "I run toward a newer day!"_

Bergil stood there, listening to the soothing melody and finding that he could not move away. His previous thoughts now forgotten, he watched Higéthryth work until she stood up and turned toward the garden entrance. She caught sight of him, then and paused, seemingly startled to find him there.

"I'm sorry," Bergil apologized to her, "I didn't mean to frighten you."

"You are supposed to be resting," Higethryth scolded.

"I am resting," said Bergil, "I'm simply out for a stroll in the meantime." The healer looked doubtful at his logic and gave him an exasperated look. "Higéthryth, yes? I remember you from the last time I was here."

"Yes," she replied, "and I remember you, son of Beregond. You were less than a model patient then, too. You must be quite the reckless soldier to keep landing in the Houses of Healing every time you are in the White City."

"I am barely scratched this time," Bergil said, somewhat more defensively than he intended.

"And yet you have been commended into our care, here," she said, "so there must be something ailing you."

"My father simply worries over much."

"And the angry looking cut on your cheek is simply a badge of honor, I suppose."

"Of course! I received this hurt battling orcs in Ithilien just the other night. Side by side, I stood with Commander Mablung and the Rangers, a mere handful of men against hundreds of orcs!"

"Yes, I heard all about it," said Higethryth, cutting off Bergil's tall tale before it could truly begin. "One would seem to have gotten you." She moved past him, toward the entrance to the Houses.

"Wait," Bergil called, "don't you want to hear about it from someone who was there?"

"My interest in warfare is healing those hurt by it," she answered, simply, "but I can only do so if those who are hurt admit that they are. Good evening to you." With that and no more, she went within and returned to her appointed tasks, leaving Bergil once again alone with his thoughts.

* * *

Faramir couldn't stand it anymore. It was nearly midnight when he finally needed to leave. His teeth seemed glued, they were so set together. His hands itched to clench into fists and he had to fight to keep them loose. Tension etched his brow. He wished for little else than to leap upon the feast table and shout an accusation to the room.

"Which one of you is the traitor to the king!?" he would cry. It would be so terrible that the guilty party would coil in terror and be plain to all.

But no. These things had to be done properly.

Instead, Faramir made his excuses and left the hall of Merethrond. He made his way to the house of the king and went to his quarters, there, hastily closing the door behind him as he entered, hoping to shut out the world.

Éowyn had not seen fit to go with him. Instead, she had remained in the company of her brother and her sister-in-law. Darkly, as he leaned against the edge of a desk in the room lit by only one lamp, Faramir mused on what she was telling them about their relationship.

And then, he stopped. And his heart was grieved for the thought he had just had. He remembered again when they had first met and he wondered at how things had come to this. In frustration, he pounded the top of the desk and began to pace the room.

"Trouble in Gondor's Garden?"

Faramir whirled around at the sound of the voice, reaching for a weapon that was not there. From a shadow emerged the small form of the hobbit Merry, pulling his hood back. Faramir's moment of relief gave way to another of panic as he realized the curtains covering his window were open. In two long steps, he went over to them and drew them closed.

"Master Merry, you would do the best of my rangers proud," he said, a little more sourly than he intended.

"Sorry," Merry said, bashfully, "we've been creeping around here for days. Sort of in the mode, I guess. I didn't mean to intrude. If I knew you were staying here, I would have found somewhere else to skulk in."

Faramir waved him off, making his way over to a nearby carafe and pouring two glasses of wine. "You are always welcome in my house, Merry," he said, handing one of the glasses to the Hobbit and indicating a pair of nearby seats. "Truth be told... I could use some company."

"That I can provide," said Merry, taking the proffered glass and settling in one of the chairs. "I take it things are a little rough?"

Faramir lit in the other chair with a long sigh, stretching his long legs out in front of him. "There are days I fear I'll never be able to make Ithilien safe," he said, "I'm growing weary of the battles, day by day."

"Yes, yes," said Merry with a wave of his hand, "but I mean with Éowyn." When Faramir looked at him with surprise and seemed to shift a little under the scrutiny, the Hobbit gave a knowing smile. "I'm right, then. I thought so. I know the look. Estella and I went through a rough patch a while ago."

"Really now," Faramir asked, casually taking a drink from his glass, "what about?"

"Well, we're trying to have children," Merry answered, "and it's not working. It isn't anything that either of us is doing."

"Or not doing?" Faramir added with a small smirk.

"Or not doing," Merry confirmed, coloring a little, "we just can't figure it out. But it's still been really rough and..." Merry stopped, suddenly. He looked up from his glass and gave a sharp look to Faramir. "Oi, now!" he said. "I forgot that you do that. We're talking about you and Éowyn, not me and Estella."

"You can't blame a man for trying," Faramir said, his eyes dancing as he took a drink from his glass. When that was finished, he rose from his seat and wandered over to the window. He pushed aside the curtain just a little and glanced outside with another sigh. "I don't know," he said with a shake of his head, "she's angry at me about something and for the life of me I know not what it is. Yet to her, it seems as though it should be obvious."

"Making her all the more angry because she thinks you know and you're just being stubborn."

"Likely, yes."

"_Are_ you being stubborn?"

"No!" There was a long pause. Merry looked at him a little skeptically. "At least I don't believe that I am," Faramir allowed. With another shake of his head, he left the window and began to pace the room. "I don't know what is happening between us. I fear that... perhaps... perhaps we were too quick in our courtship. Perhaps we should never have been married."

"You think you've fallen out of love or something?" Merry asked, amazed.

"For lack of a better way of putting it..."

"Don't be stupid."

"What?" Faramir asked, nearly aghast.

"For a man so smart, you've sure missed the point," Merry said, "your heart aches, doesn't it?"

"Yes."

"And this whole thing is making her miserable, too, right?"

"To my sorrow."

"If you had fallen out of love, it wouldn't hurt so much. So get that idea right out of your Dúnadan head. And stop over-thinking. Have you _told_ her how you feel about all this?"

Faramir stopped pacing and dropped back into his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. "I make it a point to tell her that I love her every day."

"Not what I asked," Merry said with a shake of his head, "have you told her about what you feel about _this_, at all?"

"That is unimportant," said Faramir in kind, "why should I burden her with that when all I want is to find out what will make her happy again?"

Merry settled back into his chair, seeming to study Faramir for a long moment. The Steward tilted his head in puzzlement as he did, sitting up straighter under the scrutiny. "Huh," Merry said, draining the last of the contents of his glass.

"What?" Faramir asked.

"We _are_ still talking about Éowyn, right?" Faramir gave him a confused look, even shaking his head as if to clear it, as though he had misheard. "Because the Lady Éowyn that I remember wouldn't want to be coddled like that. I mean, we're talking about a woman who, even when she didn't want to live any more, chose to ride to battle and go out in a blaze of glory trying to help her loved ones. Do you really think a woman like that would want to be shielded from the worries plaguing the mind of her husband?"

And all at once, the fog lifted from Faramir. Every spoken word that had led to an argument came into clear focus. Every conversation and sour look, every angry tone, every dark thought made the picture clearer. Every single time they had argued, it had happened right after he had tried to shield her from the things that worried him. He had thought that he was going to make her life more joyful by trying to keep away the troubles, but he had only made her miserable by doing so. The weight of it descended upon his shoulders and Faramir dropped his face into his hands.

"_Ai, _Illúvatar!" he breathed. "I have denied her _myself_!"

"Yeah, women get tetchy when you do that," Merry said, "at least you can fix it, though."

With that, Faramir nearly shot out of his chair and made for the door. "That is what I shall do!" he said.

Not having expected the sudden, decisive action, Merry leaped up from his seat and dove for the nearest shadow, lest any passerby in the hall happen to see him. His last sight of the Steward was the flutter of his cloak as he grabbed it from the nearby hook and darted out the door. With a smirk, Merry crept over to the open door silently and eased it closed.

"Well, that's one crisis averted," he mused to himself.

* * *

At last the day of the Council of the King came. In the main hall of the White Tower had been set a long table with the King's chair at the head. To his right was a chair for the Steward of Gondor. Around the rest of the table Gondor's guests had been seated. Several of the Lords of Gondor had been summoned as well. Among them were Lord Duinhir of Morthond, Lord Cristfaron of Cair Andros, and the ever-aggravating Maelrúth of Ethring.

It was well-known that the Lords of Arnor had chosen the latest of the three to represent them at the Council. Indeed, Maelrúth had made every effort to make certain that everyone knew, since it increased his standing at the table. As everyone in the hall awaited the entrance of their hosts, Maelrúth sat in his place wearing the smug authority of a false king and the look of a cat that had just caught a mouse. The Lords afforded him a wide berth, particularly Prince Imrahil and his three sons, making no secret of their distaste for the man.

One by one, the Lords of the West entered the hall and took the place at the table that had been prepared for each of them. First came the Kings of Rohan and Dale. Éomer-King was accompanied by his wife who acted as his right hand, the sharp glance of her Dúnedain family ever present as she stood next to him. King Bard II had with him a young man acting as his aid, a book and quill in his hands and at the ready.

The next to be announced was Master Legolas of Galenost. With him were Hadoriel and Valithar. He carried with him three letters; one from his father King Thranduil of Mirkwood, one from the twin sons of Elrond in Rivendell, and one from the Lord Celeborn in Lothlórien. Thus it was that Legolas spoke for the Elves at the Council.

The Dwarves entered next; Norin of the Lonely Mountain and his aide, and Gimli of the Glittering Caves with Ghan and Dwelen. Gimli and Norin both took their seats, somewhat awkwardly hopping into them as they had insisted that no special provisions be made for their shorter statures.

Finally, it was time for the hosts to enter the hall. Faramir strode into the hall and took his place at the table, flanked by Éowyn on one side and Beregond on the other. He rapped the white rod on the floor three times, demanding the attention of the assembly.

"My Lords, this Council is called to order," he said, "rise for King Elessar of Gondor, your gracious host."

At last, into the hall came the King Elessar, striding to the head of the table amid a respectful silence. Queen Arwen was with him and stood on his right, behind him.

"My lords, you are all most welcome in my Court," he said, spreading his hands before him in a gesture of welcome, "please take your ease and let us begin with the business at hand."

There was a soft murmur from the group as everyone took their seats. A few of the aids retrieved glasses of water for their masters.

"First of all, I must thank you all for answering my invitations," Elessar began, "though the Dark Lord has been defeated, his legacy remains and we still live in perilous times. My intention for this Council is for it to be the first of its kind. Lord Steward?"

Faramir nodded and rose. "In the days of the war, and indeed long before it, a council of the wise was formed to combat the Dark Lord. It consisted of the bearers of the Three, the wizards, and a number of others well-versed in the movements of the Enemy. Though it was ultimately betrayed, it still prevailed in that it fostered communications between many who would not otherwise have worked together well."

"You seek to create your own version of this council?" King Bard asked. "To what end?"

"As many of you know, Sauron left behind a great number of enemies," Elessar said, "Ithilien has borne the brunt of their attacks. But there is still unrest and movement in Dale, Mirkwood, and the far reaches of Southern Gondor."

"There are still goblins to contend with in the deepest reaches of Moria," Gimli put in, "there are those among the Dwarves who would like to see them ended soundly." To this, Norin gave a firm nod of agreement.

"Threats remain," Elessar continued with a nod, "and, as was proven during the war, the West works best when it stands together."

"Your Majesty, before we continue," Maelrúth spoke up from his place in the center of the length of the table, "I'm afraid I must again protest the presence of Captain Beregond at these proceedings."

A collective groan of impatience went up from the table. For a moment, there had been hope that, perhaps, the Lord of Ethring would not make his protests again. Several people seated at the table slouched down, rolling their eyes. For his part, the Captain once again squirmed under the sudden scrutiny.

"Lord Maelrúth," Faramir began, but stopped when Elessar waved him down.

"Captain Beregond has received my judgment, Maelrúth," Elessar stated, his voice calm but terrible, "unless you are formally protesting my word, your continued attacks against the Captain do not belong in this hall. _Are_ you formally protesting my word?"

There was a long, tense silence. The rest of the table looked between themselves, not daring to meet the eyes of either the King or the Lord. Maelrúth ground his teeth together and, at long last, dropped his gaze away from King Elessar.

"No, Your Majesty," he said at last, though it seemed to take some effort for him to do so.

"Good," said Elessar, "now. Back to the matter at hand."

"This idea of yours, this Council of the West," Éomer put in, "it has a great deal of merit. But I have questions as to how it would work."

"As do I," Norin put in, "are we all to journey to Minas Tirith for this Council to gather? At whose command do we gather?"

Faramir gave a nod to Beregond. The Captain then retrieved a stack of parchments from a side table and began to distribute them. "This will outline the idea," the Steward said, "in short, the intention is that the Council meets once every four years at a location to be chosen at the preceding gathering. Any member realm of the Council may act as host."

"And who leads this Council?" Bard asked, clearly expecting an answer that he did not like.

"No one," Elessar answered. The reply seemed to surprise the King of Dale. Several others gave murmurs as well. "The sovereign of the hosting realm, or his representative, will act as the arbiter of proceedings. But decisions made at Council will be made by a consensus of the group as a whole."

"Any member can bring business to the Council," Faramir put in, "and any member can propose the Council take an action. No member realm will have the authority to override a decision made."

Éomer was looking over his copy of the proposal, a hand to his chin in thought. "It sounds all well and good," he said at length, "however I must ask where the power of this Council would end. Are member realms to be ruled by the Council rather than their own King? What business does the consensus of other realms have making decisions for Rohan, for example, or Dale?"

Bard gave a nod of agreement. He had obviously thought of the same thing. Legolas and Gimli, too, looked uneasy, but they were clearly trying to hide their thoughts out of respect for their friend.

"None," Elessar affirmed, "which is as it should be. What a member realm does within its own borders or in its singular relations with other realms would be no business of the Council. Its purpose is communication and the facilitation of collective actions, nothing more. If member realms wish to consult it as an arbiter in the case of disagreements, they are welcome to. But that is all the power it will have."

"And if a member realm chooses not to participate in a collective action, what then?" This question was from Legolas. As he said it, he seemed to have a very far off gaze.

"They will not be compelled to do so," said Faramir.

There was a long pause as the gathering gave some murmurs. Some of the representatives turned to consult with aides or with each other. After a few moments, the voice of Maelrúth once again rose over the others.

"Your Majesty, I have but one other concern," he said, standing, "as most of you know, authority has been given to me by the Lords of Arnor to speak on their behalf at this gathering." He paused for a moment, giving the idea a chance to sink in. "As such, I feel I must speak to the nature of their far-flung distance and the different concerns they face in the north. It is well known that the time the two Kingdoms-in-Exile have spent apart has caused them to become very different from each other. On their behalf, I _must_ insist that they be treated as a separate realm for the purposes of this Council and be afforded a representative of their choosing."

"On that, Lord Maelrúth, we can most certainly agree," said Elessar, "no one knows better than I the differences between Gondor and Arnor. That was, in fact, my very intention. However, I will be reserving my right to act as sovereign should Arnor choose to host the Council."

Maelrúth gave a show of nodding sagely, then took his seat once more.

"Most of my concerns have been addressed," said Bard, "and my thought now is to accept the invitation to the Council of the West. However, this is both like and unlike a treaty. Given its unusual nature, I must have time to consult with my advisers."

"That is fair," said Elessar, "and I would advise all of you to do the same before accepting. I would have this be open and have all concerns addressed before entering into any sort of agreement."

"Wise counsel," Éomer agreed, "and I will need time to do the same. However, should the Council of the West become a reality, Rohan would gladly host its next gathering, four years hence."

Elessar smiled and nodded his thanks. From her place behind Faramir, Éowyn beamed at her brother in excitement. Better than most in the room, she knew that he already intended to accept.

"If the Council does form, and if there are no objections, Gondor would be happy to accept that invitation," said Elessar, "I thank you, Éomer-King."

Gimli and Norin had been in quiet conversation for some time. Now, Gimli gave his cousin a nod and got to his feet. Though his head was only as tall as the shortest at the table, he still had a commanding presence.

"The gathering of this Council is well and good," he said, "and I for one am of a mind to accept it. But every four years is few and far between for such grand talks. I offer an additional proposal. There is a custom among the Dwarven clans. In recent generations, it has gone un-used. But I think the time has come to see its return and on a grander scale. In ancient days, each Dwarf clan would have an emissary live among the others, representing their interests and carrying messages to and from their own lords. I propose such an arraignment between the realms represented here."

Bard waved it off almost immediately. "This emissary of yours would be little more than a hostage to his hosts. Who would agree to such a thing as that?"

"Custom prevents that," said Norin, "by agreement, the emissaries are afforded special rights within the realm of their hosts. An attack on one is counted an attack against the realm he represents."

"It seems unnecessary to me," said Éomer, "marriages between realms serve this same purpose." He gestured to Éowyn. "Cannot my sister represent the interests of Rohan while she dwells in Gondor with her husband? And cannot my wife represent Gondor in my own court?"

"Due respect to you, King of Rohan," Dwelen spoke up from her place behind Gimli, "but such marriages are not always possible. And, sometimes the marriage can get in the way of representing such interests."

"I... would not disagree with that," Éowyn said, somewhat hesitantly, causing her husband to shift somewhat uncomfortably.

The Steward cleared his throat, itching an imaginary itch on his nose. "I would certainly be interested to hear specifics," he said.

"And I would be willing to provide them," Norin agreed quickly, "I shall have proposals delivered to all within the next few days."

There was a general agreement to this. Around the table, heads nodded and there were noises of interest.

"Very well, then," said Elessar, "in three days hence, we can meet again to discuss that matter further. In the meantime, as a token of Gondor's intentions concerning the Council of the West, I would like to bring a number of matters to the table. The first concerns the recent attacks out of Mordor on Ithilien. Prince Faramir, if you would?"

"Yes, your Majesty," said Faramir, getting to his feet, "as has already been mentioned, Ithilien has been the victim of several attacks from the remaining orcs in Mordor. Between the men of the White Company and the valiant efforts of the Elves of Galenost, we have been able to hold them at bay. However, the attacks have grown more frequent and more dire. As most of you already know, the orcs have retaken Minas Morgul and thus far, we have been unable to convince them that holding it is more trouble than it is worth. It is well-supplied and reinforced by way of a supply line out of Morannon which we cannot sever. It humbles me to say, but, without help, Ithilien will not be able to retake the City of Sorcery and defeat the orcs there."

There were some mumbles and murmurs from the assembly.

"If help is needed, Rohan will send it," said Éomer enthusiastically.

"As will Dol Amroth," Imrahil agreed.

"And Morthond," added Duinhir, "if Ithilien falls, the rest of Gondor and the West will be next on the orcs' agenda."

There were more nods of assent to this, all of them grim but determined. Faramir looked over to Elessar again, his eyes asking a question which the king read well. Slowly, grimly, he nodded to the Steward.

"My lords, there is more," said Faramir, "there is an orc who has claimed kingship over the lands of Mordor and his kind. He is called Urlak. The orcs have rallied to him in a way we have never seen before."

"Orcs rally to no one!" Bard said with surprise. "They fight and follow only at the ends of their masters' whips."

Faramir gave a nod. "Yet the orcs of Mordor have done otherwise."

"He must be a fearsome orc, then," said Imrahil, "for the other orcs to fear him so..."

Elessar shook his head. "No, no, that is not it," he said, "I have seen this Urlak myself; I have fought him myself. He is a formidable fighter, but no more or less than other Uruk-hai like him, I deem."

"On the counsel of my wife," said Faramir, giving a fond and acknowledging nod to Éowyn, "and with the permission of my king," and here he paused, as if fearing to utter the words coming next, "last night, I consulted the Palantír."

There was an audible gasp from the room. All at once, several questions began to be asked; how long had Gondor had a Palantír, where was it kept, how did they know it was safe? The hall erupted into chaos as several left their seats.

"My friends, my friends!" Elessar said, getting to his feet as well and holding his hands up. Slowly the hall quieted. "I know this is a revelation to many of you. Gondor has had access to the Palantíri for many generations. The Stewards have used them for countless years as tools to help defend Gondor and the men of the west. Few men are of a line capable of their use. Faramir is such a man, as am I. As a show of good faith, I have decided that the secret of their use will now end. I will answer all your questions, in time, but for now, it is important that Faramir be allowed to continue."

This seemed to quell the outburst. Slowly, the lords all took their seats again.

"With the Palantír of Orthanc, I gazed into Mordor," said Faramir, "there is a mist surrounding those lands that even the seeing stones cannot pierce. But one thing is clear; it is not by the will of Urlak that Mordor is moving. Something greater than the will of orcs is driving this advance."

"Is it the Enemy?" Éomer asked, concern etching his brow.

Faramir shook his head. "I do not believe so. I have felt the black breath of the Enemy and this is not that. What this force is, I know not. But it is clear that something else is working against us."

"That is a thing strange to hear," said Hadoriel from her place near Legolas' shoulder, "for I have felt of such a similar presence. Several weeks ago, as I was traveling through some of the southern reaches of Ithilien on an errand for Galenost, I came to a glen that seemed to me fairer than the rest of the woods. Flowers of a sort I had never seen before were growing in vine carpets near the banks of a stream; blue with five petals. The water seemed clearer and yet... somehow more perilous. The waters spoke as they flowed past. _Listen_, it said, _listen to me and all will be well and you shall __prosper and have victory_. The words were fair, but the spirit in them was terrible and treacherous. I sped away from the place quickly, lest the words ensnare me."

"Fair words, yet treacherous of spirit," the Prince of Dol Amroth mused, "did not the Enemy work in just such a fashion in ancient Númenor?"

"It cannot be Sauron," Elessar reaffirmed, "his spirit was tied to the One Ring and that has been destroyed. This is some other force."

"But, what other force could it be, my king?" Maelrúth pressed. "The Dark Lord returned after generations without form after the Ring was cut from his hand. What is to say that he is not returning now?"

"He is not returning because it is impossible," Legolas pushed back, "if I am certain of nothing else, I am at least certain of that."

A silence settled over the table. Clearly, they had reached an impasse.

"Clearly this is a mystery for now," Faramir said amid the silence, "but, it is more important to stop the advance of this force, whatever it may be. It is imperative that we make arrangements to halt their progress and, if we can, to wrest Minas Morgul from their hands once more."

"I agree," Éomer said at once, "it does not matter what this force is if it threatens our lands. If you will have them, I would gladly send riders to help reinforce Ithilien."

"It would be a help," said Faramir, "but more importantly, we need to know all we can about their movements. The Rangers at Henneth Annûn are capable and skilled, but even they cannot be everywhere at once. Nor can the patrols from Galenost."

To this, there seemed to be no answer. All present looked to each other and found no ideas forthcoming. After all, what could others so far-flung as Dale or Dol Amroth do that the Rangers of Ithilien could not do already? None of the others in the room could offer the sort of manpower that was needed; skilled in woodcraft and soldiery alike.

"We will not solve this problem today," said Elessar into the swirling and uncomfortable silence, "for now, Ithilien will be reinforced and we will hold the line against Urlak's forces as we know them now. Éomer, your offer of riders would be gladly accepted."

"Then you shall have them," the King of Rohan affirmed.

"I will send some of the Knights of Dol Amroth as well," said Imrahil, "tracking enemies is not their strong suit, but give them a post to guard and they will defend it."

"That would free the Rangers of the White Company to track and hunt," Faramir said with an agreeing nod.

"Then it is agreed," said Elessar, "and should other realms agree to join the Council of the West, then we will make Minas Morgul our first order of business."

There were nods all around and the issue seemed settled for now. Once again, a look passed between the King and the Steward, each giving the other another grim nod. As a few more moments passed of general discussion concerning Minas Morgul, Faramir turned to Beregond and gave him a signal. The Captain inclined his head in acknowledgment, then went to one of the side entrances of the hall, disappearing around a corner. Elessar again rose to his feet.

"We have but one other piece of business to attend to," he said, "and it once again shows us the need for communication between the realms. Word has reached my court of a matter in Arnor." The king's eyes settled on Maelrúth. Faramir's had already been resting on the lord. He gave no indication that he knew of the matter. Slowly, other eyes turned to Maelrúth.

"Really, Majesty?" Maelrúth said, his voice and face betraying nothing. "I have heard of no such news."

Elessar pitched his own voice to one of surprise. "Truly? I had hoped, as Arnor's representative at this gathering, you might have been able to shed some light."

Maelrúth gave a shrug. "Perhaps, my King, if you were to tell me what you have heard?"

Right about then, Beregond re-entered the room, taking a place by the doorway that he had exited and returned through. The King gave a small smile when he saw him. The Captain gave a nod of readiness. "Better yet," said Elessar, "we have here some messengers from Arnor. They have agreed to tell this council all they have seen and heard. Captain Beregond, please show them in."

Faramir's gaze remained on Maelrúth as the lord's head snapped around to look to the Captain. All other eyes turned searchingly in the direction that the King had indicated. For his part, Beregond moved aside of the entryway, revealing the three small forms of Merry, Pippin, and Alton.

"_Periain_!?" Maelrúth exclaimed, sitting up in his seat straighter.

"My lords and ladies," said Elessar striding over to the Hobbits, "I introduce to you Master Peregrin Took, formerly Guard of this Citadel and the son of Thain Paladin Took of the Shire, Master Meriadoc Brandybuck, the son of the Master of Buckland and a squire of Rohan, and Alton Goodbarrel of Bree. I welcomed them to my halls some weeks ago and have asked them to represent the Shire, Buckland, and Bree at this council."

As most of the rest of the table began to converse in confused and hurried tones, both Legolas and Gimli shot up from their seats and went over to embrace Merry and Pippin. Éomer and Éowyn were both not far behind and Merry gave the King of Rohan a deep bow. Still, Faramir kept his eyes on Maelrúth. The Lord of Ethring ground his teeth together, trying to marshal himself, and settled back into his seat, seeming to ponder his next words carefully as he eyed the Hobbits.

Eventually, as the hall settled down from the surprise, three chairs were brought forward and placed at the table. The three Hobbits sat in them, their legs dangling uncomfortably from the height.

"My lord, this is rather irregular," Maelrúth said, his voice a practiced even tone, "as the representative for Arnor, I should have been informed of this message our good _Periain_ have brought us."

"As you will see, Lord Maelrúth, their message is of a sensitive and rather controversial nature," said Elessar, "I believed it best to inform all the Lords of Gondor at the same time."

"Yet, clearly, the Prince of Ithilien was informed prior to these proceedings," Maelrúth countered, "else his captain would not have been the one to escort the Halflings to these halls."

Elessar leveled a gaze of steel at the Lord of Ethring. Faramir could have sworn that he saw the lord flinch back, just slightly. "The Prince of Ithilien is also the Steward of Gondor," the king said, "as such, he must be prepared to see to the kingdom in my absence, even at a moment's notice. Does that explanation satisfy you?"

Tightly, Maelrúth nodded.

With that, Elessar bid Merry, Pippin, and Alton to tell their story to the assembled nobles. Pippin took most of the story on to himself and Merry seemed content to let him do so; after all, it was only natural that the son of the King's Representative in the Shire make the bulk of the report. Merry and Alton made additions where appropriate and when asked. The entire time, the Lord of Ethring glowered at them. Uncomfortably, Alton shifted away, just slightly, from the man's gaze.

"This is troubling, indeed," said Prince Imrahil when they were finished at last.

"I agree," said Lord Duinhir, "and all the more troubling because we have not yet heard anything about it."

"And there we strike at the heart of another matter entirely," said Elessar, "something has prevented word of this situation reaching us here in Minas Tirith."

"Perhaps the messengers...?" King Bard offered.

Pippin shook his head. "They all return safely, reporting that the message has been delivered."

"But delivered to where?" Legolas asked. "If they are received, to whom are they being delivered?"

"I looked into precisely that question," said Faramir, "I sent messengers to the various places through which a messenger from Arnor might pass; Dol Amroth, Morthond, Rohan, others. I received one rather odd report that men from the north had, on several occasions, been seen coming off of ships putting to harbor in Ethring and doing business with one of the town officials there."

All eyes once again turned to Maelrúth. Without even seeming to flinch, he offered a conciliatory wave of his hand, wearing a concerned look. "I had assigned someone to receive messengers from Arnor into my port, Majesty, it's true. I had heard that a number of them had been booking passage into Gondor through Ethring and I thought it prudent to have someone see to their needs. Perhaps, I will see to it myself, from now on. Majesty, I assure you that if there has been any negligence concerning this, an appropriate punishment will be handed out."

"I suppose that will have to suffice for now," said Elessar, meeting Maelrúth's gaze evenly, "and for now, it is more important to see to aiding the men of Arnor, in any case."

"If I may, your Majesty," said Imrahil, "harvests in my principality have been plentiful this season. Dol Amroth may be able to ship some stores of food to Arnor as relief."

"Morthond can do the same," said Duinhir, turning to Imrahil, "if his Excellency the Prince would allow us to use his port." To this, Imrahil nodded his agreement.

"When we left, both the Shire and Buckland were working to put together a little something, too," Pippin put in.

"And maybe Bree-land can help, too?" Merry suggested, giving a sidelong glance to Alton.

"Well," said the Bree Hobbit, "I've never really done anything like this a'fore, but... I could ask around and see if any farmers in Bree-land could spare something. Every little bit helps, I suppose."

Elessar nodded. "We will discuss the specifics in greater detail with the involved parties later, then. This should see to the basic needs of our northern kin while land is cleared for farming. There remains then only one matter to deal with; the men setting to invade the Shire." Elessar stood, his face grave and stern. "It is from the Shire that our ultimate salvation during the War of the Ring came. For this, if for no other reasons, it should always and forever be left to decide its own fate. The Hobbits of the Shire have for many generations lived as their own society with their own laws and customs. We have no desire to change that and We would see to it that none of Our people interfere with that. To that end, it is the decision of the Throne that no man may ever again set foot into the Shire while Our house endures and while the Halflings remain true. The Shire shall be given leave to govern itself after its own fashion on the authority of the Mayors of Hobbiton and Michel Delving and the Thain of Tuckbourough. So says Elessar, King of Arnor and Gondor."

There was a great deal of murmuring, particularly from the Lords of Gondor. Several of Maelrúth's supporters all knotted in upon him, speaking in hurried, hushed tones. Elessar seemed content to let them discuss it. For their part, the three Hobbits looked stunned and unable to come up with anything to say.

Finally, at the urging of his supporters, Maelrúth turned back to the King. "Your Majesty, you do, of course, have the right to make such laws as you see fit," he said, "but there are... concerns to be raised."

"Such as?" Elessar asked, sitting in his seat again and steepling his fingers.

"To be blunt, Majesty, there is no precedence for such a law," Maelrúth replied, "no region in the kingdom has ever been completely autonomous and yet still a part of the kingdom. It weakens the position and authority of the Throne to have to _ask_ for their loyalty rather than to _demand_ it. I mean to cast no aspersions on the Periannath, of course. I am sure they are loyal and true. But your authority should still be represented, which would be difficult if Men cannot set foot in the Shire."

"The King's authority_ is_ represented in the Shire," said Pippin, growing a little pert, "my family has long held the title of Thain and it is tradition that he represents the Throne. My father is overjoyed that he can do so in more than just name!"

"And I am content with this arrangement," Elessar stated, "for the Hobbits of the Shire should be given equal opportunity to be recognized in my court. This decree is not without careful consideration, my Lords. And thus, it will be as I have said and there will be no further debate. Messengers will be sent north with news of this decree and with news of the relief effort. I will be sending members of my own Grey Company."

With that, the discussion was ended. An uncomfortable silence fell over the room. Elessar's gaze moved from person to person and no one seemed willing to contest anything further.

With that, the council moved to other matters; the renewal of treaties, the allowances for trade, and other such mundane issues. By the time they were finished, the sun had set and everyone was weary.

* * *

It was much later that night when the King invited a select few into his house for a private evening. Faramir and Éowyn were there, as were Éomer and Lothiriel. Gimli, Legolas, Merry, and Pippin came also. And acting as host was Arwen.

"It is Maelrúth, I am certain of it," Faramir said to Aragorn as they conversed, "all paths cross at his door step and he has the most to gain from the situation."

"But what can he possibly gain by prompting the men of Arnor to invade the Shire?" Legolas put to the group. "It gives him no power and he is too far removed to profit from its land directly."

Éomer leaned on one arm of his chair and put a hand to his beard in thought. "There is something that we still do not know," he said, "something manipulative and dark, I deem."

"I agree," said Arwen, lighting in a seat near her husband, "his plan is not yet come to fruition and it will be a dark day when it is realized."

"And he knows we're on to him now," Gimli rumbled, puffing on a pipe, "he'll be more careful from now on, to make sure we see no more before it's too late."

"What could he be after, I wonder," said Éowyn, "he already represents the lords of Arnor in court, which gives him considerable power. What will the Shire gain him?"

"Well, I don't think we'll be able to figure it out from here," said Merry, "Maelrúth isn't likely to give up his secrets and the only others who know are the folks back home."

Aragorn nodded, giving a heavy sigh. "Do what you can to look into it. I hope you'll not take it as a slight, but I left Buckland out of the Shire declaration for a reason. I hope that you'll be able to ferret out some more information and for that, Men must be able to pass into some land that is inhabited by Hobbits."

"I thought that might be the case," said Merry, "Buckland would be a good place for that."

"And Bree, too," Pippin added, "I think we can count on Alton for that."

The conversation lapsed into specifics. Everyone in the room had suggestions and contacts for the Hobbits to look into. Eventually, it became necessary for Merry and Pippin to write down some notes in a small book that Merry had had.

For his part, Faramir remained largely silent. He found himself staring out the window, into the night. The stars shone silver above the courtyard of the Citadel. As he stared, the courtyard seemed to fade until all the world was stars. Two stars shone the brighter, blue-white against the black sky. One by one, the stars around them faded out. A voice whispered on the wind.

_Beware the two who are sundered_

_ Their light will overcome all_...

Lightning flashed from the sky, as if stabbing directly toward him. Faramir flinched back and blinked and suddenly he was back in the House of the King, hearing a knock on the door rather than the report of thunder. Arwen glided toward the door and opened it. Everyone watched her as she did, but for Aragorn, who was staring at Faramir, his eyes narrowed just slightly in concern. Faramir shifted almost imperceptibly under the scrutiny.

Arwen returned, carrying a small piece of parchment. "It is an urgent message for Faramir," she said. Faramir stood as she handed him the parchment. He unfolded it and read its letters quickly.

"Orcs are moving in Ithilien," Faramir stated, urgency creeping into his voice, "and the Fell Wyrms have been seen with them. An attack near Henneth Annûn is imminent. I'll need to return at once. Legolas?"

"Of course," said the elf, "I will be needed."

"The Houses of Healing in Minas Estel will need to be made ready," said Éowyn, "I should return as well."

"We'll need to go immediately, tonight," said Faramir.

"Of course," Éowyn agreed. Then she stopped, a thought entering into her mind. "The children..."

"They are welcome to remain here, in the Citadel," said Arwen, "Eldarion and the girls will be glad of their company for a time and we will be able to see them home safely when the crisis is over." To this, Éowyn gave a small bow of thanks.

"I will ride with you, brother," said Éomer, rising from his chair. His tone left no room for argument. "I have many riders with me. They will be of help."

"And where the King of Rohan goes, so goes this Squire!" Merry said, hopping to his feet as well.

"Then you'll not be going without me!" Pippin exclaimed, doing likewise.

"This Dwarf won't sit idle while there is work to be done!" Said Gimli. "Shall we renew our contest, Legolas?"

"I should be glad of it!" Legolas replied with a grin.

"A wondrous company!" Aragorn exclaimed. "Men and Elves and Dwarves and Hobbits! Not since the Fellowship has this been seen." He voice turned stern and his face darkened. "Go with our blessings, all of you. And may the thanks of all Gondor follow you until the end of days."

Then, one by one, everyone exited the room to go and make their preparations. Faramir and Éowyn were the last to leave. Aragorn halted Faramir after the others were out of earshot. Éowyn hesitated, but Faramir gave her a nod.

"I will be along in a moment," he said.

Seeing Aragorn's grave face, Éowyn stopped only long enough to give her husband a kiss, then followed the others.

"You were lost a few minutes ago," Aragorn said to Faramir once she had gone, "what did you see?"

For a moment, Faramir replayed the vision in his mind, searching for anything of interest. "Two stars in the east," he said, "flaring bright and overwhelming all. And yet somehow, they are not together. It is as if their light is a war between them that is choking out everything around them." When Aragorn gave Faramir a puzzled look, the Steward gave an apologetic shrug. "Such visions are not always helpful," he said.

Aragorn gave a grave nod and a long sigh. "Be cautious, my friend," he said, "if there is a power in the east worthy of visions, Ithilien will be first in its path."

"Ithilien will not fall while I live," Faramir affirmed.

"That vow does not bring me comfort, for it brings a dear friend to danger," said Aragorn, "you have this vow in return; should things go ill, your children, especially Elboron, shall be fostered in my house, for your sake and for the sake of Gondor."

Faramir nodded his thanks and took his leave of the king. Just outside the door of the house, waiting in the yard of the Citadel, Éowyn and Beregond were waiting for him. The others had already gone ahead. He did not break stride as he came out, making for the tunnel to the sixth circle. They fell into step beside him.

"My lord, I have sent Mablung ahead to Minas Estel to make the rest of the White Company ready to ride," the captain said, "our people here will be prepared within the hour."

"Good," said Faramir, "have them muster in the center court of Rath Celerdain. And send word to Éomer-king and the Masters Legolas and Gimli. I will not do them the discourtesy of making them catch up. We ride together. And Bergil?"

Beregond shook his head, looking utterly lost. "How he caught wind of this, I know not, my lord, but he already insisted to Mablung to be included. Mablung agreed and I am not of a mind to over-rule my commanders, as much as I may wish to."

Faramir gave a grim hum of understanding and paused in thought as they walked. "I would have him arm me ere we ride. Send him to me."

As they emerged from the tunnel and out into the sixth circle, Beregond gave a bow and went about his business.

"What are you thinking about, my love?" Éowyn asked, still keeping pace with him.

Faramir stopped and turned to face her, taking her hand in his. "Besides how relieved I am that you are want to ask me that question, now?"

Éowyn's smile in reply was warm and her eyes danced with amusement. "Besides that, yes," she said, placing her other hand on his face.

"I believe I like this new understanding of ours," said Faramir, as they leaned in a little closer to each other, "all you need do is ask and all I need do is say."

"Yes, remind me to have some of this summer's batch of mead sent to Merry in thanks. He seems to have fixed what we two could not. But, since you have not said, let me guess what is on your mind. You are worried about our captain's son?"

Faramir gave a nod. "I wish to see to it that he is fit to ride with us before he does so," he answered, "Beregond deserves that much from me. But more, I wish to make certain he is not riding only for his own pride or because he feels as though he has failed. By all reports, he comported himself well in battle. Whether he remembers it or not does not change that."

"This is the noble Steward that I married," said Éowyn, "I have missed you."

"And I you."

* * *

When Faramir's company rode forth from Minas Tirith, Bergil was indeed with them. No one knew what words were exchanged between the young ranger and his Prince, but Bergil stood taller, somehow, though he had not grown in height.

With the White Company rode the Elves of Galenost, Éomer-king and his Éorlingas, the Dwarves of the Glittering Caves, Prince Imrahil and his Knights of Dol Amroth, many bowmen of Morthond, and the three Hobbits.

They rode through most of the day and mustered at Minas Estel. There, the Lady Éowyn departed her husband's company and went into the city to make ready the Houses of Healing. The Prince himself made camp with his company. Throughout the night, the rest of the White Company mustered, including many of the Ithilirochonath and many of the Rangers. When they rode the next day, their numbers were 200 strong.

North they went from Minas Estel, crossing the Morgalduin and continuing past the Crossroads. More of the White Company's Rangers and Elves of Galenost joined them as they went. By the time they reached the field of Cormallen, their numbers had grown to nearly 300. And it was at Cormallen where they met the enemy and did battle.

Upon the field, there was an army of Orcs and Uruk-Hai, of numbers nearly a match to their own. Commanding them was Urlak himself, the Orc-King. The sky above was grey with low, heavy clouds and several of the Fell Wyrms wheeled back and forth overhead. Sometimes, they would disappear into them only to emerge again somewhere else. Their terrible cries echoed over the field, mingled with the sounding of alarm from their riders' horns.

The archers of Morthond formed ranks upon a western ridge, each pounding a stake into the ground pointed toward the enemy. Behind them, the archers of Galenost joined them and some of the Rangers as well. Before them rallied all those who were on foot, with Faramir leading them. Beregond and Imrahil were with him, as were Gimli, Legolas, Meriadoc, and Peregrin. Alton, using a bow given to him by Valithar, was with the archers. With the footmen also were several of the guard of Minas Tirith, having been sent by the King. Éomer surveyed the scene from horseback and brought his riders up beside the footmen on their right.

"What say you, Faramir?" he asked. "The scene seems set for the hammer and anvil, does it not?"

"It does indeed," Faramir agreed, "I shall trust in you and your riders to be the hammer, since you are the faster. Léowine and the Ithilrechyn shall ride with you."

Éomer gave a nod, then spurred his horse back to re-join his riders. At a shout and a gesture of his spear, Léowine and his riders followed.

"My lord, what do we do about the Fell Wyrms?" Beregond asked from Faramir's right.

Faramir pondered for a moment, then ground his teeth with a determined and grim sigh. "There is little that we _can_ do about them," he answered, "save end this battle quickly by concentrating on the orcs. Prepare to sound the charge."

The Prince drew his sword, his mouth set in a grim line as he stared down the distant line of enemies. Holding his sword aloft, he turned to face his own line. "For Ithilien and the west!" he shouted. "_Sí i 'alad heria! Sí galad vín heria!_"

The assembled line shouted a war cry in response. Faramir turned his horse and spurred it forward. Beregond sounded a horn to charge and there were answers from others down the line. As one, the Ithilien line charged toward their enemies.

Éomer and the riders reached the orcs first, spears finding targets from one end of the line to the other, hooves thundering as they trampled. In short order, the King of Rohan had led the riders through the ranks of orcs and off to their right, making for the open field and leaving a swath of death in their wake. The soldiers on foot came behind them, striking quickly at the broken line. As the riders moved off, the orcs turned their attention back to the footmen and the fighting grew intense quickly. But the men of the west held firm, never moving from the place they had chosen to defend.

Some of the orcs at the back end of the riders' charge chose to turn and fight the horsemen as they began to harry that part of the line. Éomer cleverly lured them further away and group by group the riders made short work of them. Finally, the orcs left were only the ones following the orders of their leaders at the front, fighting Faramir's line. Now the time was ripe for the hammer to fall.

But the Fell Wyrms fouled this battle plan. Three of the great beasts dove from the sky and plowed through the battle lines of the west, scooping up soldiers in their sharp claws and slashing others. Some of the riders were knocked from their horses by their vast wings. The line of the west began to scatter and all around there were calls to regroup.

Faramir, too, had been unhorsed by the Fell Wyrm attack. Somewhere in the distance, he heard Beregond's call to arms rallying the White Company. He was about to join it when he felt a large, ominous presence behind him and smelled the hot breath of something foul. Turning, he laid eyes upon one of the beasts, stalking him menacingly. Its rider grinned in malice and Faramir recognized the mutilated face of Luglash the Orc.

The wyrm's long neck lunged toward him. Still bringing his sword up, Faramir sprang aside of it. The beast's teeth missed him only narrowly. With a leer, Luglash pulled on the reins and directed the beast around, pursuing Faramir as he tried to evade the wyrm's attacks. Finally, Faramir had had enough of the deadly game. He braced his feet and brought his sword to bear. As the beast attacked again, he stepped aside and cut into the wyrm's forearm. It reared back, leaving Faramir with an opening to lunge in for another attack to its heart. With a loud cry, Luglash forced the beast back to the ground before Faramir could close the distance. The Prince dodged out of the way at the last second, just getting his sword up in time to block Luglash's vicious strike.

Their fight turned to swords, then. From the saddle of the Fell Wyrm, Luglash struck at Faramir several times, all while trying to keep the beast under control. The wyrm thrashed under him, allowing Faramir to close in and grasp on to the orc to try and grapple him down from the beast's back. The move surprised Luglash and he jerked the reins. All at once, the wyrm's mighty legs coiled and sprang and all three were in the air. The wyrm's wings snapped out to either side quickly and then they were climbing into the sky faster than Faramir ever would have dreamed possible.

In short order they were high above the battle. Faramir's grip was like a vice as he held on to Luglash. The orc continued to swing at him with his falchion, trying to knock him loose. The movement caused the reins to pull this way and that and, in kind, the wyrm spun and turned. Faramir slammed into the beast's side and found purchase in the riding tack. The wyrm darted to the other side and the motion propelled him upward over the beast's back, slamming into Luglash. The two grappled atop of the wildly thrashing beast and somewhere in the fray Faramir lost his sword. Luglash, also, lost his falchion.

There was a flash of silver as Luglash drew a dagger. Faramir dodged it as best he could. The wyrm jerked to the side at the same moment. Luglash missed with his dagger, but followed through with a strong push. Faramir went over the side and began to fall.

As the ground hurtled toward him, Faramir cared nothing for what was happening around him and far below in the battle. All he saw and all he cared about was his descent; quick, unrelenting, and inevitable.

Thus, he did not see that which was ultimately his salvation. Great, golden feathered wings appeared beneath him, scooping him up and slowing his fall. Abruptly they caught an air current and then Faramir found that beneath him was no dream, but one of the great eagles of the north. Up the great bird rose, high above the battle below. Instinctively, Faramir grasped on to the ruff of feathers that was beneath his hands. Breathless, he could find no words.

"Hail Faramir, Prince among Men!" the eagle cried. "Landroval am I, sent by the great Windlord, Gwaihir. We are here to fight with the Men of the West!"

Still, grasping on to the Eagle and gaping at their great height, Faramir was having difficulty forming a sentence. As it was, all he could manage was a confused "We?"

As if in answer, several more of the great birds swooped in from above, turning sharply and making for the wheeling Fell Wyrms. Talons rent into flesh and screeches filled the air as they engaged in a great aerial battle, freeing those below to fight the more mundane, ground-based assault.

"Hold tightly!" Landroval cried. And Faramir did, for the Eagle dove toward Luglash's mount, joining in the fray with his fellows. Together they looped and rose, cornered and dove. Faramir could barely keep up with the progress of the fight. At long last, Landroval's talons found purchase in the Fell Wyrm's wing, tearing it. From their great height, it plunged to the ground and in short order both Luglash and his mount were a ruin upon the landscape below.

After a quick circle of the battlefield, Landroval glided to a gently rolling hill overlooking the area. With a flutter of his wings, he landed and crouched low. Faramir slid off the Eagle's back, his legs shaking.

"The Fell Wyrms shall be no more menace to Ithilien or to our skies," said Landroval, "we have watched them for some time and we can say that these are all of the foul creatures that were hatched. There are no more."

"You have the thanks of a grateful Steward of Gondor, great Eagle," said Faramir, "though it be the thanks of a rather breathless one."

Landroval ruffled his feathers as he stood taller. "My lord Gwaihir bids me bear this message. _The Great Eagles shall not lie idle when the Council of the West calls. But it must call, for will are too few to come unlooked-for unless our interests once again coincide_."

Faramir gave a nod. "We shall welcome such a mighty ally. I shall bear your message to the Council."

"Look to the thrushes and the ravens. They will bear your messages." With no further words, Landroval spread his wings and beat the air downward, jumping into the air with a mighty wind. Faramir was nearly knocked over by the force of it, but managed to keep his feet. He watched the Great Eagle re-join his fellows in the sky and together they soared north from whence they had come.

Faramir looked out across the battlefield. Small skirmishes were just ending at the edges of what had been the battle. Amid the wreck and ruin, the carcasses of the Fell Wyrms laid, black and reeking on the green of Cormallen. Far in the distance, the last of the orcish forces were retreating.

The White Company and the Council of the West had won the day. But the victory had come at a heavy price. All about, the dead lay upon the field; man, orc, horse, and warg. Already the stench of death was on the breeze. Faramir wandered through the wreck, past small, huddled knots of soldiers, searching for his men.

As he passed by one of Fell Wyrm carcasses, a strange sight greeted him. The Elves Hadoriel and Valithar were knotted together with the Dwarf Ghan, the Hobbit Alton, and a rather young looking Man wearing the livery of the guard of the Citadel; the prince thought he remembered the tall youth called Junior. All five were pumping each others' hands and Alton was passing about his pipe. Faramir guessed there was a story to tell, there. But there would be time for that later.

"Faramir! Faramir!" a voice called across the field to him. "Faramir! Oh, where can he be? Faramir!" After several moments of searching, he finally spotted Pippin aimlessly running across the field. At nearly the same moment, the Hobbit spotted him and ran toward him, renewing his speed. "Oh, Faramir! Thank heavens! Something awful has happened!"

"What has happened?" Faramir asked, his voice pitching upward to match Pippin's worry.

"It's Beregond!" Pippin cried. "Oh, come quickly, please!"

Faramir nodded and motioned for Pippin to lead the way. He followed at a run through the reek and the rake on the field. At last, Pippin led him to a sight that chilled his heart.

Laying upon the field, his head in the lap of his son, was Beregond. Merry was nearby, as was Mablung. The ranger was busily tending to a wound in the Captain's side, applying a poultice and a bandage as Beregond twitched at the touch. Half-heartedly, he tried to swat the ranger's hands aside.

"I told you, it's nothing," he said, "leave it be and tend to others worse off than I."

"Father, please," Bergil pleaded.

"By the Valar, Beregond!" Faramir exclaimed, rushing over to the captain and the rest of the groups. Kneeling down next to him, he tore off his helmet and laid a hand on Beregond's chest. "Lie still, let Mablung tend you."

Beregond looked none too happy, but ceased his protestations. He eyed Pippin, skulking behind Faramir. "I might have known that was where you had gone off to. Meddling Perian."

"Well, I had to find someone you'd listen to!" Pippin said, his hands on his hips as if he was scolding a child. "You'd still be walking about, if I hadn't!"

"I told you, it's just a flesh wound," the captain protested again, "he just got a small piece of me when I foolishly got distracted. Ouch!" He gave a glare over at Mablung. "You did that on purpose."

Mablung said nothing for a long moment but Faramir swore he saw just the slightest hint of a smirk. "He should be fine," he at last declared, "the bleeding isn't bad and I've made certain that infection won't set in. I imagine he's in for a few stitches when we reach Minas Estel."

Sitting back on his heels, Faramir gave a sigh of relief. "Thank the Valar," he said quietly.

"I told you, my Prince," said Beregond, his gaze meeting Faramir's as surely as a hand reaching out, "death and darkness will not take me. It is I who will choose when they can have me."

Faramir couldn't help but give the captain a wry smile. "I do not believe that authority is given to you."

"Then watch me take it," Beregond replied.

"Father, the sword," Bergil broke in, putting a blade into Beregond's hand. Faramir looked over to it and saw that it was his own.

"You said you were distracted," Faramir said with realization.

Beregond gave a nod, laced with something that seemed like embarrassment. "I saw your fight with the Fell Wyrm. I couldn't well leave the sword lie on the field when you were carried off. I return it, now."

Faramir gave a nod and a smile, patting Beregond's shoulder as he stood. He did not take the proffered sword. "Captain, a Prince does not accept something given to him on the field by a soldier on his back," he said with the twinkle in his eye, "I expect it to be returned to me with due decorum when we return to court."

Clutching the hilt of the sword to his chest, Beregond gave him a nod of understanding.

"Bergil," said Faramir, turning his gaze then to Beregond's son.

"Yes, my lord?"

"Tend to your captain until he is safely in the hands of the healers back home."

The youth gave a smile and a nod, part acknowledgment, part thanks.

"And I'll tend to Bergil," said Pippin, "he must be exhausted himself. You know he matched blades with a warg rider with no one to help him? Not a boy any longer, not by a stretch!"

"Nay, I've a more pressing matter that I need you to attend to, Knight of Gondor," Faramir said to Pippin, "with the Captain of my company out of commission, I'll need some extra help. I would have you bring me word from the King of Rohan, the Masters of Galenost and the Glittering Caves, the Prince of Dol Amroth, and the men of Morthond. I believe this to be a task worthy of the Prince of the Halflings?"

"Oh! I hadn't thought of that," Pippin admitted, "come to think of it, Merry rode with King Éomer and I haven't seen him since the battle. Suppose I'll start with them. If that's all right, I mean."

Faramir gave a nod and that was all the impetus Pippin needed. "Right then, I'm off!" he exclaimed already in motion. He darted off, dodging battlefield debris as he went and calling his cousin's name.

It was actually the Elves and the Dwarves he found first. Both were clustered in groups near each other on the field, cordial but not really mingling. Between both groups, however, two stood together. Pippin saw Gimli standing next to Legolas. The former was cleaning his axe and the later was unstringing his bow.

"My count was 18, this time," said the Elf.

"Aha!" Gimli exclaimed. "19 was mine! Bested you by one again!"

"Hmm," Legolas said, thoughtfully, "it would appear that we have both fallen off in the count, then."

"Well, it isn't like Helm's Deep or the Pelennor," said Gimli, "there were fewer orcs, this time. Much shorter battle. And besides." And here he sobered somewhat, casting a glance over his shoulder to his own company. "We both have more responsibility, these days."

"I do too!" Pippin exclaimed, pushing his way through the company of Dwarves in order to get to them. "Like finding you lads."

"Well, there's one Halfling to have made it through the battle!" Gimli exclaimed. "Where are Merry and your Bree-lander friend?"

"I haven't found them yet," said Pippin, "but Faramir sent me to find all of you and learn what news you have."

"The battle went well," said Legolas, "our casualties were light, thanks to the Rohrrim and their cavalry."

"Aye, ours as well," said Gimli, "which may be another reason our count was so low."

"Pippin! Thank the stars I found you!" It was Meriadoc who had spoken, rushing up to Pippin, Legolas, and Gimli and nearly tackling his cousin with an embrace. "You mad Took, I lost you in the fight completely!"

"Steady, Merry lad. I'm fine. And glad to see you are, too."

Merry then released Pippin and his smile faded. "The King sent me to find Faramir," he said, "do you know where he is?"

"Sure," said Pippin, his voice falling as he picked up on Merry's urgency, "he's back over there with the White Company. He sent me to find the King, in fact."

"Then let's go and fetch him," said Merry, "there's something he needs to see." Then he looked up at Legolas and Gimli. "In fact, you should see it, too."

"What's happened?" Legolas asked.

"Something no one expected," Merry answered, "and it means trouble. You all need to come and see, quickly!"

* * *

It was only a little white later that Merry and Pippin had gathered the various leaders of the army. Merry led them all to the place where Éomer had summoned them. The Hobbit was urgent and seemed distressed, but no matter how much they would ask, he wouldn't say anything until they had come to the King of Rohan.

"Faramir, my brother!" Éomer greeted when they came. He extended a hand to the Prince and grasped it warmly. "Your riders are to be commended. They fought well."

"They had some of the best teachers in Middle-earth among their numbers," Faramir replied, "but Meriadoc seemed quite urgent when he brought me your message. What has happened?"

Éomer gave a grim nod. "I do not know what this means," he said, "I had hoped that one of you might. Come with me."

He led the group over to a small knot of his men, gravely standing guard next to a pile of fabric that had once been a cloak but had been torn and tattered to rags by the insanity of war. Feet were sticking out from underneath it, shod in some sort of black, cloven boot that Faramir did not recognize. They looked hard, but threads seemed to peel off from the plates in layers along the edge. Looking more closely, he saw a texture very like linen on their surface.

"My men found him among the ruin of the enemies upon the field," said Éomer, "our horses likely ran him down among their number."

"You dragged us out here to see some orc?" Gimli said with a long-suffering sigh. This earned him a nudge from Legolas.

"That is no orc," said Faramir.

"Indeed not," said Éomer, motioning to his men.

They pulled back the old, tattered cloak. Beneath it, body showing the tell-tale signs of having been trampled, was a man. But no man of a sort that Faramir had ever seen. He was dressed all in black, armor of a sort that had never been seen in Middle-earth before, made from cloth glued together in thick layers. His boots were cloven at the toe and rose high on to his calves to be bound there by strips of still more fabric. About his head was bound a mask, rising up from his chin. His black hair was tied into a thick, braided knot on the top of his head.

"He looks like one of the Swarthy Men, from the south!" said Pippin.

"But I do not recognize his dress," said Faramir with a frown and a shake of his head, "I do not believe he is from Haradwaith in the south or even from Rhun in the east."

"He was carrying these," Éomer said, taking a pair of hook-shaped blades from one of his men. He handed them to Faramir for inspection.

"What manner of sword is this?" the Prince wondered.

Éomer nodded to one of his men. The Rider stepped forward. "My lord, I saw the man using them. Often he would use them to trip is adversaries, but at times, I saw him bind them together, like a chain, and spin it about."

Faramir handed the blades to Gimli and then they changed hands to Legolas. "I have never heard of such a weapon," said the elf.

"Nor I," Gimli rumbled, "what manner of man is this?"

"I know not," said Éomer.

"Still more," said Faramir, "and the more puzzling, why does he ride with orcs?"

No one there had an answer. Or if they did have one, they did not wish to give it voice.

"This mystery is deepening," Éomer said.

"Just how much deeper can it go?" Gimli wondered.

* * *

At the end of the day, there was little more to be learned. The army returned to Minas Estel and made camp there. The wounded were tended to in the Houses of Healing. And one by one, the companies of the Council of the West began to return to their homelands.

Many stories were told of that day; of Bergil the Ranger and his deadly dual with the warg rider; of two Elves, a Dwarf, a Halfling, and a Man who came together to best one of the Fell Wyrms; of the massive and heroic charge of the Ithilrochonath and their commander Léowine; and chief among all tales, that of Prince Faramir, the Eagle-rider of Ithilien.

But tales were not told of the mysterious dead man in black found upon the field. For none knew his story.

* * *

Holy cats, that took me _forever_ to get done! Yes, you are looking at those dates right, it was _eight__ years_ to write this chapter. I have a new-found respect for the writing of the Council of Elrond in the original books. This chapter, by itself, is officially longer than the last whole fic I wrote by about twenty pages or so.

There's a lot in this chapter, which accounts for its length, but even so there was a great deal that ended up on the cutting room floor. Most of it was just pointless self-indulgence (Hadoriel, Valithar, Ghan, Alton, and Junior were going to get blotto and blow up a john at one point, for example), so out it went. But some of it I really want to go back and write (Faramir's conversation with Bergil being the big one). I have some "appendices" in mind that may incorporate some of it, but it's not very integral to the main story.

The next chapter is going to be even harder to write, emotionally. Those of you who have hung in there waiting and who came back after the inexcusably long wait, I thank you heartily for sticking with me. And I apologize in advance for the inevitably long wait that there will be before chapter five.

Get a hanky ready because the next chapter is going to be more than a little sad.

_Bado na sídh_.


End file.
